


Poor Unfortunate Soul

by makapedia, PeregrineWilliams, witchynick



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Demisexuality, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Succubus, Witches, incubus, resbang, resbang 2015, sex demon au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5379695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeregrineWilliams/pseuds/PeregrineWilliams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchynick/pseuds/witchynick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soul is a sex demon and literally starving. He’s laughably terrible at what he does. It’s a good thing Maka has a soft spot for strays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He hates his fucking life.

Violet Baker grins at him, ruthless and toothless, before shuffling down the hall after an old man with a walker and eternal urine aroma for a rousing game of bingo. His first thought isn't  _what the fuck am I doing here?_  or  _did she seriously just grab my ass?_ , but instead,  _where did she put her dentures?_

Revolted, he tugs his hat further over his ears and wonders when hugging sexually frustrated elderly women became the norm for him.

The nursing home reeks faintly of mothballs, but mostly overpowering floral perfume and the generic fresh cotton scent that comes from cheap, off brand candles. The discomfort that resonates in his bones would will him out the door, if it wasn't for the fact that the line for free hugs has finally run dry and he doesn't feel quite as fragile anymore. He has to pick his battles, and the embarrassment of being blatantly objectified by the elderly outweighs the horror of passing out due to starvation.

He  _really_  fucking hates his fucking life.

But sitting and crying about it won't solve his problems, so he jabs his hands into his pockets and focuses on sucking it up instead of wallowing in his misery. A nurse looks on in pity, shuffling by in her tanuki-printed scrubs.

"How're you feeling, big guy?" she asks, quirking a meticulously shaped brow. "Dizzy?"

"Lightheaded." But not awful, thank god. He can still stand on his own two feet without wobbling, and he isn't being stuffed into saggy, wrinkly cleavage anymore.

She leads a hand up his forearm and cups a shoulder. It's not as good natured as it is flirtatious, and her fingers sprawl and smooth over the fabric of his shirt. A chill runs up his spine and he shudders. "I could help with that, you know."

Kim looks at him a lot like she's a hunter and he's the prize. It's so backwards, almost offensively so, and he can almost feel his dick withering and concaving into his body. Her lashes are long and dangerous, coated with a third layer of mascara and mischievousness; Soul's no stranger to Kim Diehl's lingering glances and advances but there's a startling, resounding part of him that vehemently rejects the idea of getting in her pants.

And it's not just because her girlfriend breathes elegance and puts Soul and his limp sex drive to shame.

"Uh, I think I'm good," he coughs into his hand. "Hasn't worked before so I doubt it'll work now."

"Oh please," she rolls her eyes. "The last time we tried, you pushed me off the bed and tried to seduce me with your Netflix account and a bag of peanut M&Ms. You didn't even touch my boobs."

" _How_  am I a bad person for not touching your boobs?"

"Because I have an awesome rack?"

He makes a face and wobbles his hand; Kim's nose flares and he retracts at once, regretting everything and praying to whatever damned god or demon is listening that he'll survive her wrath. Banter sounds off down the hall - it must be dinner time for the residents - and she tears her glance away.

Soul's shoulders fall.

Objectively, he knows she's not wrong. He can appreciate the beauty of her body and all it has to offer. The way her hips flare and bosom swells brings men and women to her feet alike, and there's no way she needs his validation to feel good about herself. The girl lives and breathes confidence and sensuality, a proper example of what  _Soul_ should probably be.

The problem has  _never_ been not finding her attractive. He knows she's hot shit (and so does she, of course) but he can't bring himself to  _want_ her. Not in the way he's supposed to, anyway. Not in the way her girlfriend desires her, not in the way his brother desires  _everyone_. Kim is legs and hips and tits but he feels no stirring in his pants or flashes of heat on his face.

"Can't you just whip something up for me to take?" he pleads desperately. "A potion, or a cure, or - shit, anything?"

Her brows knit together and she hisses "No," to him, tugging him down to her level by the collar of his jacket. "I'm a witch, not a miracle worker. If you want a cure, you're better off going to the big kahuna yourself and  _begging._ "

"You know that won't work." It hasn't worked yet, and he's been barking up that tree since he turned eighteen - several years ago. "There's gotta be some other way."

"Sorry," she says, patting the side of his face gently. "I stay in my lane. Mischief and transfiguration? Sure, hit me up. But changing your blueprints without permission from your higher ups? Not really my place, Soul."

"I  _can't_  keep living like this."

Her eyes soften noticeably. It's eerily delicate for Kim, who takes candids of her mostly-naked girlfriend and sets it as her SnapChat story.

"... You know, since you feed off of sexual energy…"

"Kim," he cuts her off, voice strangled and tired. "I'm not sleeping with you."

"- Let me finish! Maybe you could feed off being around people who are going at it. Jackie's coming over tonight, and I wouldn't mind letting you be a fly on the wall if it means fixing those sunken in cheekbones of yours."

There are about seven things wrong with what she just said and Soul has the mental capacity to handle exactly none of it. He rubs his temples and shakes his head, heaving out a ragged breath before chuffing out a "no," and follows it with " _god,_  no,  _what?_ "

"It's just a thought!" She pinks. "It's worth a shot! You look like death, Soul, and you still don't have any horns to speak of-"

"Did you even ask Jackie first?" He watches as she deflates. "Didn't think so. Thanks, but no thanks, Kim."

"Just trying to keep you alive," she huffs. Really, he should probably be more thankful - nobody's forcing her to offer him entry into her bed, and he knows she's not truly as greedy and thirsty as she makes herself out to be - but he can't find it in himself to stop grimacing.

He's a terrible person and he's cranky, sue him. Being an ass is probably allowed in this situation. Kim might be down with his business, but Soul knows for a fact that her girlfriend is a hundred and ten percent not about the penis lifestyle. She'll thank him later for selflessly turning down Kim's offer and dooming himself to another night of fever dreams about vaginas and actually feeling something other than discomfort and disinterest.

Soul fixes Kim with a wary half-smile and jabs a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the line of elderly people shuffling off toward the cafeteria. "Shouldn't you be helping people who can actually be saved?"

She shakes her head and punches his arm lightly. "Your self-depreciation is alarming and you should see someone about it, dickbag."

"Just get out of here before one of them sees me and decides to come for seconds. My ass has already been sampled once today and I'm way past my quota."

If there's one thing Kim takes seriously, it's butts. She props a hand on her hip and raises her brows, and Soul belatedly realizes he's issued a challenge. Of course he can't be the only potentially attractive one in the room. It's all or nothing for her, and she's not one to go out without fight. Before he can take back his unspoken dare, Kim turns on her feet and struts after the line of retired folk, hips swinging seductively, strides purposeful. She catches the attention of ol' Bernie, he-who-plays-checkers-all-day-and-prefers-prune-juice. He breathes fog into his glasses and scrubs the condensation away excitedly at the sight of her in her shapeless scrubs.

"Hooooo boy," he croons, leaning forward in his seat and knocking over his cane. "I wouldn't need annnnyyy help from sildenafil citrate to help the ol' engines start revving if I had a honey like her in my bed."

"I'm almost afraid to ask what your doctor's been prescribing you, old man."

"That's Viagra, son."

Soul wishes he had the same vitality. He shoves Bernie's bald head away and scowls. "Eyes on the game; he's got you stuck in a pin and your flying king's on the other side of the board."

* * *

It's a full moon out tonight.

Not one, but  _two_  tanned, bare asses sway in time with the low, ragged breathing of his brother. Soul's halfway in the door, one foot in and one foot out and he already wants to turn around and leave. It's six PM and the damned overachiever already has two girls roped in for a night of sexual endeavors, and it's taking place right on the living room floor.

The swing of their hips is a little mesmerizing. Soul stares for a moment, the headache worsening the longer he waits, and wonders if maybe  _distracting_  is a better word for what's going on. No part of him wants in on it (his brother is getting his dick sucked, ew?) but they're at least fluid in their technique.

It's just an ass kind of night.

Soul clears his throat and kicks the door shut behind him. "I didn't hear any werewolves howling."

There's a bout of giggling and shrieking before he hears a chime of " _Oh!_ " and  _one_  of Wes' lovely ladies turns around. His first reaction is to shield his eyes and look away, because she's not wearing a damn thing and it's probably impolite to stare at a pair of bare tits, even if whatsherface isn't even a little bit uncomfortable with her state of dress. Part of him is jealous -  _why can't he be that comfortable in his own skin?_  - but the other says power to her. He does not peek through the cracks of his fingers.

Plus his brother's penis is loud and proud at the moment and honestly, he's seen Wes' genitals one too many times for his own sanity as is. Seeing Wes' junk at all is more than enough for him, really, but they live a strange life.

"Hello, Soul," Wes greets, wriggling one hand away from plentiful bosoms to chance a wave at him. "You're home early."

"Didn't realize it was already dinner time."

The ladies both giggle and snuggle into Wes' hip. Soul wonders why no one but him finds it strange that they're cuddled up on a shag carpet on the floor. It was his turn to vaccuum last and he definitely skipped out on it. Karma smiles upon him for a brief three seconds, right up until Wes opens his big mouth again.

"I was feeling hungry." Liar. Wes is anything but deprived - his skin practically glows with good health and vitality. "So I took the liberty of bringing dinner  _home_."

"No fucking way."

"Soul, that's no way to speak in front of ladies," Wes chastises while feeling up the both of them. They coo and sigh, leaning into his touch, and Soul practically vomits right on the cheesy carpeting and red-and-black decor.

He scowls further and jams his hands into his pockets, searching for his phone. "I'm leaving."

"Oh no you're not!" Wes scolds, and like a leash, Soul is yanked back and rooted to the spot. "You have to  _eat_  sometime. It's not healthy to go without for so long. You're never going to grow any horns at this rate, and the only way to fix that is to-"

"Don't you think I know that?" He's snarling now, great, and the two girls practically perched on Wes' dick sink back, eyes wide. "Would if I could, trust me, but it's not so easy for all of us."

Because he knows, very well, what he  _should_  be doing. Wes holds out a hefty offer on a silver platter. A willing and eager women, by all means, is a blessing; an incubus lives off of sex and feeds off the sexual energy and spirit of their partners. She's a  _meal._  Nothing would be more refreshing than sinking between her plush thighs and  _finally_  doing what he's meant to - physically, anyway. But what the body wants and what the soul wants are two very different things, and he's never been quite able to get out of his own head.

Not like Wes, the damn overachiever. He's never had a damn issue getting it in. He's a primed, healthy incubus. A model study, in fact, with the largest, strongest horns in recent history, fueled by his enthusiastic feeding; his, erm,  _patrons_ are some of the happiest customers to known date.

His brother manages to look concerned and believable all the while stroking down bare thighs. Soul mutters " _Jesus H. Christ,"_  and whips his phone out before Wes can start _fingering the girls in front of him._  He needs to look anywhere but the merry threesome in the middle of his living room, and stat. The cellphone is a welcomed distraction, and he maneuvers his way through his contact list with blinding clarity. It's incredible how good he is at texting with the sound of oral sex in the background.

**need to get out. you around?**

Hopefully Liz isn't out on the town. He rather wants to sink into her couch and watch some b-rated horror movies to pass the time; her screams of horror and disgust are preferable to the sound his brother makes while there is a mouth around him.

"Soul," Wes tries again.

"Dude, pay attention to your, uh,  _partners,_ " Soul winces. "Don't talk to me with your fingers in some chick."

"Two." He sounds breathless.  _Gross._ "One for me, and one for you-"

"Wes, I love you, but shut the fuck up. Just stop."

He's answered with a low moan and dual squealing. He feels fingers tugging at his pant leg and practically jumps out of his own skin as he stumbles back toward the front door. Soul has no idea who was trying to tug him in, and frankly, he doesn't want to find out. No matter the answer, there's no way any sleeping will happen tonight. Doesn't he have enough stress dreams as it is? Why give himself more nightmare fuel?

_Hey, Listen!_  chimes and Soul opens the text immediately.

**hungry? I'm home and bored ;)**

She's given him a window of opportunity, an easy solution to his rather pressing problem. Is Liz the answer? Is she salvation in the form of long blonde hair and full hips, or will he choke under pressure again?

" _More, MORE!_ "

It's better than staying home and watching a cheap porno unfold, he decides. Between the wannabe goth and sensual decor of the Evans' shag pad, and the fact that there are two busty brunettes currently taking turns riding his brother's nasty dick, there is plenty of material for websites with too many x's in their url. Soul chances a glance up and watches in horror as his brother manages to preform cunninglus on one girl and have the other ride him simultaneously. Wes works fast.

It must take a great deal of coordination to keep both happy. There's no way Soul would be able to please even  _one_ girl at a time. He glances back at his phone with a hardened resolve and a laughably flaccid penis.

**be over in 10**

She sends a reply as he's busy shoving on his shoes and struggling to race out the door before anyone  _finishes_  and realizes he's making a jailbreak. It's a personal victory of his to get out of the door in one piece and with his pants still safely on his person, belt and all.

Soul: 1, Wes: 2 (and counting).

* * *

Google suggests wine, sex toys, lube, and massage oils for a hookup. Soul considers it all of five minutes before deciding that asking the bored looking teenager stocking the shelves where the cock rings and nipple clamps are is a Bad Idea and grabs a box of condoms and some cheap wine instead. Pretending that he's a classy motherfucker is futile; Liz knows him too well, and  _he_  knows that she's down for a glass of discount wine if she can get her freak on while listening to his virgin sexy time playlist. She gets to hear the debut of the tracklist.

He picks up and puts down a bottle of lube three times, weighing his options. Is it necessary? Will his penis shift and shape itself to please her the best? Should he go for the flavored varieties? Chocolate? Vanilla?  _Bacon flavored?_

Probably not. Liz goes through vegetarian phases; drizzling his dick with meat-flavored penisbutter before sloppily struggling to stick it in would probably be the least sexy thing he could ever do. He buys the classic, flavorless number and shuffles out of the pharmacy, hiding his face like the shameful loser he likes to pretend he isn't. What sort of 21 year old man is ashamed of buying condoms?

Realistically, he should be proud. He's going to Get Some. At last. As in, he's going to hook up for the first time and try very hard not to feel bad about it.

It's not like she's a stranger. Liz has been his friend for years, will continue to be his friend even after he sticks his dick in her, and respects him enough as a person to understand why he asked in the first place. He's literally starving - being an incubus wasn't terrible before he came of age (not having to eat food just enabled him to further his laziness and napping-until-noon lifestyle) but is a legitimate problem now.

He feeds off of the spirit and energy of his sexual partners. Soul has been damned to a life of  _fucking for food_.

He's a virgin. An awkward, bumbling,  _uncomfortable_ virgin whose penis is bafflingly  _uninterested_  in anything breathing.

And no, that doesn't mean he's interested in fucking the dead - necrophilia is gross as shit. It's just that sex has never been overly appealing to him despite his rank in the food chain. Images of attractive women and feminist oral porn get him going, sure, but actual women and sexual situations tend to wean away his excitement. It's a fine brew of performance anxiety and a continued disinterest; he's  _broken_ , a  _sex demon_  who doesn't feel  _attraction_.

Part of him thinks it's all part of an elaborate joke. Oh, poor Soul, poor boy who struggles with his raging introversion and people skills, how could things get any worse for him? Let's make him an incubus. And on top of that, let's really fuck with him and take away the part of him that wants to do the horizontal tango.

Liz, of all people, understands, because she's not human  _either._

Beautiful siren Liz, with the long blonde hair and curvaceous hips. They met through Wes, naturally, because Wes knows everyone in the underworld. He's sort of famous, really, and it has everything to do with the all the fun, interesting things he can do with his penis. Liz, though, can eat normal food and not have to rely on carnal relations to gather energy. Sure, she has an odd taste for blood (especially a man's blood), but she's trustworthy, and her song has never affected him.

She sings beautifully but it doesn't excite him the way it excited Wes, who has bedded his brother's best friend three times. The very same best friend that Soul is aiming to sleep with tonight. There is no reassurance in depending on Liz's song to lull him into security and the hum of arousal. There is only his sheer power of will and the wine.

The universe is cruel and Soul's not laughing. He's scowling, actually, and he feels like his stomach is going to eject itself out of his butt as he knocks on Liz's door and juggles his bag of goodies into his free arm. He arranges his expression into carefully calculated disinterest to hide the way his hands shake and tummy clenches and curls.

"Come in," Liz greets, dressed in silk sleep shorts and a tank top. She's not wearing a bra. Soul gulps. "Quit standing there, it's cold outside."

"You're the one not wearing a jacket," he sputters.

Her grin is playful as she raises her brows and cooes, "I was keeping the blankets warm for you," and he trips, stumbling through the front door. Liz narrowly snatches the bottle of wine as Soul tumbles to the floor, taking the condoms and lube with him. She holds the bottle close to her heart and prods the pile of failure and disappointment with her bare toe.

"Are you okay?"

"Nice save," he groans. At least the alcohol won't suffer from certain death.

Too bad the same can't be said for his cool. There's no saving that sinking ship.

Liz grins and offers a hand to him. "Get off the floor. I didn't want you to actually kiss my feet and beg for it."

"No kissing," Soul whines. "Might slobber a bit, though. Think I smashed my jaw."

"Poor baby." She tugs him to his feet and dusts his shoulder off. He meets her eyes and purses his lips as she cups his jaw in her hands. It's not uncomfortable, not unwelcomed, but it's also not warm fuzzies and burning desire that he feels in his gut as she touches him. It's more a nurturing feeling than anything else, like she's his mother, making sure his scuffed face isn't bleeding and doesn't need a bandaid.

"What's the damage?"

"Bruised a little," she says. "But you're fine. Want to ice it?"

"Is that sexy?"

She laughs and kidnaps the bottle of wine again, scurrying off toward the kitchen. "You're sexier when you don't try, Soul," she informs him, teasing smile still curled upon her lips. She's not wearing makeup but she's still beautiful, still all hard blue eyes and high cheekbones. It's not any less intimidating than her razor sharp eyeliner and smokey eyes.

Soul slumps into a chair at the counter and plants his chin in his hands. "Keep it cool?"

She snorts. "Don't take a digger before you get her panties off. No girl is going to throw them at you if you can't manage basic human interaction."

Liz pours two glasses of the wine and slides one to him. He takes it into his hand, wiggles and shifts the base of the cup and watches the drink spin and splash like a child playing with his food. Belatedly, he realizes that he hasn't drank anything for substance or a buzz since he turned 18, and the alcohol won't be taking the edge off of anything. Playing with his drink is better at soothing his nerves than doing nothing so he keeps at it, shoulders slouched and quietly wishing he'd smoked something before heading over.

And  _that's_ twisted; it's  _sad_  he has to consider getting high in order to feel alright with getting naked with  _Liz Thompson,_  of all people. Most people would tear off their left arm for a chance to get it on with her.

She raises a brow and lowers her glass from her lips. The wine has left her mouth glossy and damp and Soul shoves a napkin at her. "Aren't you going to have any?"

"No point."

Her brows crease. "Then why'd you bring it?"

Because he's an idiot, why else. "Cool guys don't just show up for sex empty handed," he drawls boorishly. "Duh."

" _Duh,_ " she repeats, squinting at him. "Then let's move this into the bedroom, shall we?"

Ignoring the sinking in his stomach and the sweat beading along his forehead is a project and a half, but he swallows his nerves anyway. It's for his own good, Soul tells himself as he drags himself out of his chair and follows Liz to his doom.

His 'doom' being her bedroom, which isn't unfamiliar but still brings an odd discomfort that settles in his bones and haunts him. Insecurities whisper and croon to him -  _not good enough, never good enough_ \- and he stills behind her, watching her pull her shirt over her head in one fluid motion.

Her bare back is beautiful, like a painting, but he has no desire to drag his fingers down the regal line of her spine and taste her skin. She shakes her hair out of her high pony and flashes him a dark look from over her shoulder and he gulps.

"Plug in your iPod," she murmurs to him.

He might be embarrassed if he wasn't so thankful for the distraction. Soul cycles through his playlist, selects the one titled ' _Liz_ ' at the bottom and lets the low beats drum and dictate the throbbing in his chest. The song works as a metronome for his nerves, steady and sturdy, and he slouches onto the bed and sits on his knees. He stares at her pillows, her headboard, anything but her.

She moves like a cat, all grace and long limbs leaning and arching. Carefully manicured nails pull at the hem of his shirt gently and he finally looks at her. She bites her lip and raises a brow, a wordless question, and he jerks a nod of his head. With her help, his shirt is discarded with only minor difficulty.

Liz runs her fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes. "This is a good song."

"Yeah," he says slowly. "It's one of my favorites. I dig the bridge-"

"It's sensual," she agrees, attempting to lace her arms around his neck and tug him over to her. Soul stumbles towards her, knees shaking. Her chest is warm and soft against his, pillowy, and he would be comforted if not for  _nipples_  and the knowledge that more nakedness is to come. "Hmm," she hums as she ghosts gentle kisses along his jaw.

His skin feels like it's crawling.  _No, no, no._

But it's just Liz, Soul tells himself. He has napped in her bed plenty of times. This is not stranger danger that he feels clogging his throat.

He can't bring himself to look her in the eye while he caresses down her sides. Shame wallows in his very being, choking him, punishing him for laying his hands in places they do not belong. His thumb follows the lines of her ribs, counting them in his head.  _One, two, three, four..._

Liz moans against his skin. His cheek flushes with color, greedily drinking in her pleasure. He's parched. All at once, he's reminded of his goal, of their intentions, of why they're messing around in the first place - and it's not for her benefit at all. It doesn't sit well on him, even with his starving heart and shaking arms.

Her nails scrape down the side of his neck and dig into his shoulders. She's giving, giving, and Soul feels scummy for taking; she is not a meal. She is so much more than dinner, than a quick, awkward fuck that will leave her breathless in all the wrong ways. Deciding to try harder, he grips her hips and leads her down, tucking her head against the pillows and pressing her into the mattress.

Right. Okay.

It's not like he's never seen a naked woman before. Being the younger brother of Wes "Plenty o' Puss" Evans comes with a few perks. Liz's bare chest is not foreign ground. Tits are his friend, not his enemy. All boobs are good boobs, Wes always says.

Thinking about Wes while trying to platonically bang Liz feels a lot like incest, so he shakes the thought and instead focuses on slipping her lacy panties down her hips.

She eyes him. "So?"

Soul burns red and vehemently attempts to disguise it with a snarl. " _So?"_

Unabashed, she slips her legs apart and links a knee around the back of his leg. Liz allows him to gawk at the array of bare flesh with minor sass, but when Soul does nothing more than gape like a fish and squawk, she clears her throat and nudges him. "Anything?"

He forces a breath through his nose. No, he's still a limp noodle. .

Instead of answering her question and further embarrassing himself, he decides to take the hands-on approach. Soul glides his fingers along the curve of her hip slowly, cautiously watching her expression. She nods, and he finds that he can't look her in the eye while he rubs her more private anatomy.

A nervous laugh bubbles out of him as she quakes with the hint of a groan. He glues his eyes onto the headboard. It's a cherry oak color, with intricate designs and careful detailing. He's focusing on the way the decoration spirals and curls into simple leaves and branches when Liz slides her hand up his chest and grabs his shoulder.

"Soul," she breathes. "You should kiss me."

He screams internally. " _Uh."_  He bites his lip. "Yeah, okay."

Kissing is normal, Soul tells himself as he leans over her. It would be weird for him not to kiss her, theoretically, but when he presses his mouth against hers he's not so sure. They still, lips unmoving and eyes wide open, sizing each other up. Is this supposed to be sensual? Is she enjoying this? Because he's sure not.

She groans against his lips. "Never mind," she huffs, her breath humming against his mouth. Soul jerks back happily, now that the permission to stop the platonic mouth touches has been granted, but moves with too much force and shouts in terror as he tumbles off the back of her bed. Liz shrieks and sits up, hand over her heart, and fails not to laugh at his misery. He grunts, rubs his sore shoulder and Liz shakes her head as she holds a hand out to him.

"Am I sexy yet," he groans uselessly.

"Your brother's a better lay," Liz answers, too honestly.

Defeat, thy name is Soul. He didn't even get his pants off this time.

* * *

They end up cuddling and finishing off his playlist. Liz sips the cheap wine and Soul buries his face against her shoulder and drinks in her body heat. They try the sex thing again but to no avail; a pelvic charlie horse prevents Soul's hips from doing anything even remotely rhythmic and he throws in the towel, resigning himself to a life of hugging the elderly and living with an empty stomach and light head.

"You're going to die," Liz murmurs into his hair.

"Fuck me," he groans.

"Soul, I just  _tried-_ "

"Don't remind me."

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. "I could try singing?"

He snorts. If only it were that easy. "It never changed a damn thing before. Even a siren's song can't get me laid, Liz."

If he weren't so emotionally constipated, he might cry a little. Coolly, of course. His life is so frustrating, and his stomach growls loudly, as if he's ever had a chance to forget his fate. Destiny is a bitch and even his fellow supernaturals can't help him now. Kim refuses to break the rules (what?) and Liz's song can't entice him.

Liz pauses for a moment, scratching the back of his neck lightly. He feels rather like a dog but doesn't shy away from her neck scratches. "You're fucked."

"Mmh."

"Well, not fucked.  _That's_  the problem, more like-"

Soul muffles a whine. "Not now, Liz. Seriously."

He leaves her house when the playlist loops, stuffing his iPod into his pants pocket and ducking through the door. She watches him through the window, offering a bittersweet wave with the hand that's not clutching her glass of wine. At least he was able to give her something, even if it wasn't a throbbing meat wand. At least she'll get use out of the cheap convenience-store wine - more use than she (or anyone else, for that matter, himself included) will ever get out of his penis.

"Would it kill you to work for once," he grunts at his crotch. "Kinda starving here. Need to fuck to live. I'd like to live to see Wes bald at least."

A group of young teens gasp. Soul defaults to snarling and baring his jagged teeth at them like a werewolf or something; but he still has demon genetics and it is late o'clock, so with the lowlight of the moon and flickering streetlights aiding his fucked up appearance, he manages to scare them away with minimal blows to his pride.

They titter and gasp as they scurry.

Soul slouches and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Dick," he whispers accusingly.

There's no stirring in his pants. He suspects his lower anatomy wouldn't reply even if it could. It can't talk now, but it already does a splendid job of ignoring his wishes and doing what it wants. His penis is more chill than he is. His penis is too cool for him.

"Who do you think you are," he grits his teeth. "I'm the boss. I'm the coolest guy around."

Who tries using intimidation tactics to bully his penis into should-be submission. Coolest cat on the block, for sure.

Realizing that he's effectively talking to himself, he scowls and keeps trudging forward. It's later than he would like it to be. He's not afraid of the dark, per say, but the streets are harder to navigate at night, and making his way home is never easy on an empty stomach. His gut growls and roars, malnourished and sore.

As if it's the only one suffering. His body is constructed of up traitorous, whining parts that make up his whole, his disillusionment and his frustration. His stomach aches, his head throbs, his limbs suffer, and his dick holds the award for most errors in the season. Three strikes and he's out; Kim, Wes' offerings, and Liz.

He wobbles on his feet. That's the ballgame, Soul supposes; like he expected anything more than a night of disappointment and hunger.

It must've rained recently. The dampness of the grass edging the sidewalk makes his sneakers squeak and creak. He zeroes in on the sound like a hawk and his head pounds, bothered. He focuses on nothing else but the sound of his shoes and the uncertain lighting of the nearby streetlight, and his vision wavers, the sharpness of the lines of the sidewalk blurring into murky smudges of gray and black. The night darkens around him and time slows as he sluggishly glances up; suddenly it's much later, and the gloomy shades of the hour cloud him and spiral until he can see nothing but darkdarkdark  _blankness_  and swirling blots of colors.

His skin practically  _melts_  in waves of sweat; he feels frail as he wobbles and grapples for something, anything to steady himself. And the colors curl and ripple, shifting into places and shapes that he belatedly realizes resemble the pinkness of flesh, of spread legs and curious excitement that feels disturbingly foreign.

He laugh-screams as he fades out of consciousness and plummets into the pseudo vagina.  _Gross._  How unsightly.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When he comes to, the first thing he notices is a cat.

She curls her tail and licks her paw daintily, flashing a glance at him with curiously wise yellow eyes as she swishes her tail.

Blearily, he blinks and opens his mouth. Everything feels dry; his bones are achy and the need for substance still roars in the pit of his very being. But he's tucked safely into what he assumes is a twin sized bed, judging by the way his feet practically dangle from the end of the mattress. The covers are tugged to his shoulders and tucked under his chin, encasing him in a blanket burrito that he can't remember digging himself into. And he definitely doesn't know anyone who owns a cat.

His blood runs cold. Is Wes fucking a  _cat?_  Has his brother finally hit an all time low and embraced the questionable allure of beastiality? Christ, she's not even anthropomorphic; the kitty might have smart eyes and a beautiful coat of fur, but she's still four-legged, paws and all.

" _Pleasegodno,_ " he slurs. "Any'hing but a  _furry_."

The cat mewls and tilts her head. He swears he sees her grin as she moves from the foot of the bed, strides graceful and gentle as she climbs her way up the length of his legs. One misplaced paw dips a little too close to the family jewels and he gasps breathily, squirming his useless, numb limbs. His eyes open wide and he squints at the bedding; floral, pink and blue, muted pastels. Something Granny Evans would use to decorate her home.

_Is Wes fucking an old lady?_

A door clicks shut and he jumps. Hand over his quilt-clad heart, he stares at a blonde girl toting a bowl of soup and breathes a sigh of relief. She is not adorned in age spots or cat ears; she's tiny and cute, with slim legs and full cheeks and bright eyes. The girl might be close to 18, but that's another headache for another day. Wes could do so much worse.

"Sorry," she squeaks, shuffling over and planting herself on the side of the bed. "Did I scare you? I thought you were still passed out."

Well. She's awfully close for someone who undoubtedly is here for his brother's wicked ways. She picks up the spoon and offers it to him, and she's much too nice to be messing around with the likes of an incubus. Poor thing.

"Hungry?"

Hungry doesn't even cover the half of it but that spoonful of chicken noodle soup won't be nourishing him any. She must be new. "A little," he lies gently, attempting to scoot back and sit against the headboard. His hand tangles in his mess of hair at the base of his neck and he blinks back spots of light. "Whoa, shit-"

"Careful!" she scolds, leaning a slight, slender hand against his shoulder as she eases him back down. Her hands are cute but strong, misleading in their appearance, and he obeys her wishes. Soul slinks back under the questionable blankets and quirks a sluggish brow at her. "You fainted," she clarifies. "On my lawn. I heard you scream and carried you back in here."

So she's  _not_ one of Wes' hot little numbers. That explains the cat he saw, which has moved from crushing his junk to curling on her lap and mewing cutely. Soul wiggles his fingers up to his head and tugs his beanie down farther out of habit. If she's not messing around with Wes, then she definitely doesn't know who Soul is. Or  _what_ he is.

Something tells him she won't be so kind and willing to let him rest in her old lady blankets and cuddle with her stuffed animals and cat if she knew he was a sex demon. He still can't place her age - she's not too young but not old, either, and her pigtails and wide green eyes answer exactly zero of his questions.

Well, now he's self conscious. Kind girl finds sex demon passed out in her yard and tries to selflessly feed him canned soup.

It's probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him, outside of offerings of sexual trysts and makeouts. For a moment, he's caught off guard; she doesn't know him and _probably_  have any ulterior motives.

She's  _way_  out of his league.

"Oh," he mutters. " _Oh_." Fuck.

"I'm Maka," she offers, smiling kindly. Her teeth are straight and white. She has a near-perfect smile, a dentist's wet dream. It's only when he stares and searches for an imperfection does he notice her lips are a little chapped.

He blinks. "Hey," he echoes. "Thanks for…  _thanks._  I should go."

"But, wait! I have soup." She holds out the spoon again. "Rest. Really, I'd rather you stay here while you gather your strength."

Soul wants to laugh. If that were the case, he would have to stay forever, because he's never going to gather his strength from something as human as Campbell's chicken noodle soup, no matter how pure this girl - Maka's - intentions. He squirms instead and burrows his way back under the blankets, wondering if he tucked his head under she'd assume he was missing and let him waste away in peace.

"Thanks," he croaks again. What else is there to say?  _I know you mean well, but if you'd open your legs and let me go down on you for a few hours that'd be swell?_  Fat chance. He doesn't even  _know_  her.

She sighs, exhausted. "Just open up, will you? I promise I didn't do anything funny to it."

"Dollar tree special?"

"Microwaved it myself," she says. "Chock full of TLC and sodium. Here comes the airplane!  _Vroooooooom_."

Soul pouts around a spoonful of lukewarm soup. He swallows without chewing and stares her dead in the eye as she smiles smugly. Maka looks a lot like a proud mother watching her toddler-son wobble through his first steps. He has half a mind to spit it back up and make her wipe his mouth clean with a cloth just out of spite. How dare she be so sweet and kind in her misguided ways?

He shouldn't be here. It isn't right. She's too genuine to be caring for someone like him. He thrives off of the spirit of those he sleeps with, and even though he's pretty sure he won't be able to charm the panties off of her, it's the principle of it that has him feeling greedy and wrong. The girl is so naive in her ways, feeding a strange man soup and letting him sleep in her tiny ass bed. Doesn't she worry about stranger danger? Of things that go bump in the night and want to taste her lovely little lips?

She's a pretty thing, even if her hair is in high pigtails and her bedding looks like it could belong to one of Kim's residents. Wes would go for her in a heartbeat. They could probably share homemade cookies before having a frivolous fuck session in the kitchen.

"Isn't that good?" she cooes.

"I'm  _21_ , not 4."

Maka smiles,  _too sweetly_ , and boops his nose. "Then act like it and eat the soup, or Mama's going to keep feeding you like you're a baby."

He swears he can hear the cat  _giggling._  Anthropomorphic or not, there's still something up with that damn cat. Those eyes are wise and calculating, knowing and playful. Soul stares right at the feline as Maka stuffs another spoonful of chicken and noodles into his mouth and practically chokes when the kitty winks.

"Chew!" Maka scolds, and the cat hops from her lap and sways her tail as she slips through the crack of the door and disappears into the hall.

"Your cat," he gags.

She raises her brows and glances over her shoulder. " _Blair?_  She's snuggly. Sorry, did she wake you? She likes to claw her new friends."

_Blair_  doesn't sound familiar, so he doesn't press it, though he's still convinced there's something fishy going on with Maka's furry little friend. There's a lot more coherence brewing in that dark little head of hers. Maybe Maka's too enraptured with her cute fur and soft tail to tell, but he comes from the underworld, the land of supernaturals and unfortunate shenanigans. Soul knows an otherworldly presence when he sees it, and this cat definitely isn't of the mundane, normal variety. Cats tend to be devious, sure, but  _this_ is something else.

"Water?"

She bounds from her seat and nods, dropping the spoon gracelessly into the bowl. The broth splatters onto his cheek, thankfully at approximately bath water temperature, and he wipes it away with the fabric of her bedding. The pastel florals can take a little chicken broth, he thinks. It's a wonder the rest of the room is so pristine and tidy, sans her bookshelf, when she moves with such heedless hurry and heavy steps. How can anything so small make so much noise? It's like she's a rhino in a mouse's body.

The door slams shut behind her, and Soul finally has time to himself to  _think._

How is he going to make it out of this one? She's not wrong; he is lightheaded, and the hunger is crippling and distracting. Soul's never been quite so hungry in his life, and he's so  _tired_ of pretending to be okay with it all. He could really use a good fuck, or  _something,_ anything. Even a kiss would hold him over.

It feels crude to entertain the idea of seducing the poor girl. But what else can he do? He won't be leaving on an empty stomach, and Maka's chicken soup for the malnourished sex demon's Soul won't be solving anything. And will it even work? Enticing anyone out of their undergarments has never been his strong suit.  _Charming_  is not usually what word-association games pair him with -  _rude_  or  _crabby_  are usually what come after  _Soul._

But he has a chance here, doesn't he? Maybe the fourth time's the charm; maybe this girl will be different.

Soul steels his resolve and ignores the lightness in his head as he pulls himself up to sit. He pats himself down, checking all his stations - chest, stomach, crotch, legs - and nods solemnly to himself. She seems almost worrisomely trustworthy and he feels like he's taking candy from a baby.

Maka scoots her way back in, glass in hand, and Soul puts his plan into action.

"Is it hot in here?" he croaks, shooting her what he sincerely hopes is a steamy look. He holds his hand out in front of him and fans himself dramatically.

Her brows furrow. "That's funny. The window's open."

He groans out a breath and leans his head back, exposing the length of his neck. "So  _hot,_ " he drawls. "I just wanna…"

Mission: Strip Tease starts off swimmingly, and he grabs his shirt by the back, grins wolfishly at her and proceeds to yank it over his head. He catches her wide-eyed stare and thinks  _yes, score._  Everything goes to shit when it catches on the barely protruding peek of his horn, and he just about screams in frustration. Mission: Abort Mission Strip Tease scrambles into effect as he thrashes, caught with his horn hooked on his shirt, beanie slipping off his head and hands grappling uselessly at cotton.

_Why do bad things happen to good people,_  Soul wonders mirthlessly, tangled in his shirt uselessly and flailing like a headless chicken.

Maka gasps and scurries over. "Sit still!" she scolds, and then her hands swat his out of the fray. Her skin is warm and soft and his knuckles tingle, and before he knows up from down and has a chance to react, the shirt is torn from him and tossed to the floor in a flurry of stretched fabric.

Soul wheezes. Maka holds out the glass of water.

He guzzles it down without saying anything and buries himself in her pillows. They smell faintly of simple shampoo and minty toothpaste. It's basic and  _infuriating_ , and he wants to scream and throttle her childish stuffed bunny that stares at him from her windowsill. It was a shitty idea from the start - she's too wholesome, too  _sweet_  to be mucked up by the grubby hands of a demon. Especially his hands, because even if he wouldn't be overly gross with her sexually, there are still piles upon piles of  _problems_  and  _issues_  that stem from within him, and who is he to tangle this perfect stranger in his mess?

The sound of her exhaling through her nose tears through his grumbling. Her hand parts through his hair, stroking softly, searching; a slim hand wiggles its way to his forehead and she lays the back of her palm flat against his sweaty skin.

"Oh," she says thoughtfully. "You  _are_  hot."

His mouth parts and he pants. Between his elevated temperature (he's practically a walking  _furnace,_  and it's a fucking joke how primed he is for pleasure and inept at following through) and his famished fever, he's not surprised that he's sweating like a hog. Soul snorts ruefully; yeah, he's not enticing the panties off of  _anybody_ tonight.

Soul rolls and stares at her through the corner of his eye. She worries her lower lip, nibbling gently at chapped, pink skin. She really is quite cute, he decides, and not as young as he had initially worried. Sure, she sports an impressive baby face and large green eyes, and her frame isn't on the buxom side, but there's a certain maturity in the crease of her brows that tells a story. And Soul's never been a particularly avid reader, but she interests him. Maka doesn't bat an eye as she finishes tugging his beanie off to smooth his hair back from his forehead, fingers cool, and Soul can't stop himself from arching into her touch.

He gapes at her.  _The horns,_  shit.

Maka fingers one for a moment, smile curious, and then laughs. It's not accusative or malicious so much as it's tender and warm. "My brother's really into cosplay, too. I don't judge," she says. He sputters for a moment, only to decide that being accused of being a weeaboo is a simpler (and less problematic) fate than her finding out that he'd meant to turn her into dinner. "But these are small?"

"Yeah," he growls tonelessly. "Don't worry about them."

"I think they're cute," she decides, dragging her thumb over his damp forehead. His face pinks pleasantly. "Even if I don't read that comic."

"Wh- I'm not a filthy-"

She flicks his forehead and laughs again. "Your secret is safe with me. I won't tell anyone that you forgot the body paint. I'll grab you a wet facecloth though, okay? Nobody likes to marinate in their own sweat."

He's still shouting his denial as she shuffles out the door. The sound of the bathroom sink doesn't deter him even for a moment - being a weeb is one thing, but he's not letting her tarnish his good name  _that_  quickly. Even if she doesn't even know his name.

* * *

After a nap or two and another "feeding" session, Soul feels sturdy enough to sit. His head doesn't quite feel like it'll float away as he presses his back against her headboard. He tugs at the hem of her comforter distractedly as Maka pulls over the chair from her desk and plops herself down beside him. Her hands slap down onto her knobby knees and she stares inquisitively at him, and he has to wonder how thoroughly she's inspected him during his down time.

He doesn't feel violated. Though he isn't exactly innocent, and he did technically try to get into her panties earlier, whether she realized it or not, so maybe her keeping her hands to herself is a moot point. She wasn't excited by his bare form earlier, and she'd helped him replace his shirt after he finally talked her down from accusing him of being webcomic trash. She might be touchy feely in the way she checked on his "fever", but she hadn't made any move to grab his more interesting bits. Soul had no reason to believe she had nefarious intentions, despite having slept in her bed and accidentally caught a glance down her shirt as she leaned over to press the wet rag to his forehead.

If that was her form of seduction, he wasn't buying in. And if that was the case, it was at least refreshing to know that he wasn't the only sexually inept one in the room. It would be a first.

"So," she says slowly and  _oh no,_  Soul thinks, she  _wants_  something; there's always a catch, and no kindness is without ulterior motive. The introvert in him quakes uncomfortably. "You don't smell like booze."

He glares at her. "I wasn't drinking."

"How was I supposed to know?! You passed out! In my yard!" Her nose flares adorably. She's a lot like a miffed kitten when she's angry. "And you weren't exactly quiet about it. You kept mumbling to yourself."

"Christ," he groans. Considering he'd had a fever dream of a vagina, something tells him he doesn't want to know what he was saying while he was incoherent. "I plead the fifth."

Annoyed, he grabs for the glass of water again and gulps down a long sip. Maka can't honestly expect him to say anything while his mouth is full, right? A foolproof plan.

"Is Wes your boyfriend?" she blurts. Soul spit takes, drenching everything in his path, Maka included. She shrieks as he spews backwash all over her.

He heaves, eyes wild, and slams the glass down. " _NO."_

Her brow twitches. She wipes the water from her face with a hand and scowls. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"Sicko," he spits. "Wes is my  _brother._ "

She at least has the grace to look embarrassed. " _Oh._  But you kept saying his name, so I thought-"

Soul snarls and drops his head into his hands.  _He_ doesn't really want to think about the implications of muttering his brother's name while hallucinating vaginas, never mind discuss the meaning of it with  _her._  "No, no, just -  _ew, no._  How could you even think that? How dare you," he mutters, scandalized.

"I didn't know!" she yelps, reaching out to pinch him; he jumps a mile and slaps her hand away. "Should I call this  _Wes_  so he knows that you're not dead on the side of the road somewhere, or would you like to do the honors?"

He picks at the front of his now-damp shirt. "Uh, yeah. We better take a rain check on that one."

"Why?"

He looks to the ceiling innocently. "Because when I left home, he was in the middle of a threesome," he says, ruthless in his dry tone and blank stare. He cracks a grin the longer he looks. She has glow in the dark stick-on stars plastered along her ceiling.

Maka splutters. "That could've been hours ago-"

"He's not done," Soul reassures. "Wes goes hard."

Her lips pull tight and then suddenly she's not a  _cute_ angry anymore; she's disgusted,  _pissed,_ and he restrains himself from teasing her about her decor out of the fear for his lower anatomy. Her hand pulls into a tight fist and she presses it against the edge of the mattress, the only place spared from when Soul became a sprinkler.

Wes' sexual endeavors have always been strange to him, but not because of the number of partners he has in a night. It's always been Soul's own lack of interest in the act with anyone that makes his brother's nighttime (and  _daytime,_ too, if he's being honest) activities seem strange. He could never see himself willingly engaging in bed-shaking sex with a near stranger. For the first time, Soul realizes that maybe having constant, constant sex could be considered weird and immoral to some people. People like Maka, apparently, who have granny blankets and childish stuffed bunnies and other contradictions like that.

He wonders why. His brother has a lot of sex, but he's not a bad person. Infuriating and nosy, sure, but not  _bad._  Maka squints at him and he draws back, oddly defensive over the man that had offered to share one of his booty calls.

"I don't want to call him," she mutters. "You'd better. You know, when he's not  _busy_."

But then again, what does she know? She's human, a mortal. She can order a pizza if she's hungry. She doesn't have to go out of her way and charm her way into somebody's pants in order to rest easy.

He shifts and stares at her shoulder. "What bit you in the ass?"

" _Excuse me?_ "

"It's just sex," Soul grunts. "He's safe. Buys them dinner. Makes sure they get home safe or that they're comfortable staying the night."

She gapes at him, not unlike a fish. "I never  _said-_ "

"He's not hurting anyone," he says lowly, slowly. "So whatever you have against-"

"Okay!" she bursts, cheeks tinted; he melts a little beneath the heat of her stare, molten evergreen fiery and dangerous. "I understand, really. You don't need to school me on what I already know, I just-" she tangles her hands back in her lap safely, nose crinkled. "My papa... "

_Ah._  So that's it. "Got it," he nods, feeling rather exhausted.

Her gaze softens. "Got it?"

Feeling tapped out from all the forced social interaction, he nods curtly and tugs his arms behind his head and sits back, stretching. He's an ass, sure, but not enough of a dick to make her talk about her issues to a perfect stranger. Family matters are rough, and nobody knows that better than him; piano keys and strong, proud horns haunt him and he forces his expression to remain emotionless as he closes his eyes and forces back his fluttering nerves. It's never been his place to speak up like that, especially on Wes' behalf - usually it's the other way around - and he feels tired, like he could take another nap.

In her bed. He hopes she doesn't want it back any time soon, because it's cozy. It's not the memory foam pad he has back in his own room, but Maka has pillows piled high around him like a throne and he feels laughably regal surrounded by stuffed Totoros and Pokemon.

He picks up a Eevee plushie and stares at her, raising a brow. "Who's the weeb here anyway?"

She squeaks and steals it from him, taking a pit stop along the way just to swat him in the face with the tail. "It was a gift!" she insists, but she can't wipe the color from her face. "And it's  _cute._ "

"Mmmhmm," he hums, smirking. The little punches aimed at his arm are worth getting her flustered. " _Methinks the lady doth protest too much,_ " he echoes, enthralled by the way the rosiness of her cheeks skims down the length of her neck.

Maka huffs and hugs the Eevee to her chest. "Shut up, you... !  _Bully,_ " she sputters aimlessly, pouting. She grapples for placeholders, and he realizes he hasn't told her his name yet. How completely useless; no wonder he only has like two friends.

He slides Totoro into his lap and tugs at an ear. "Soul."

Maka's too busy staring at his plushie abuse to really focus. Her brows crinkle. "Wh-?"

"My name," he blurts. "It's Soul. Sorry." He flings the stuffed toy at her. "And uh, thanks. You know. For letting me sleep here and spit water all over you."

She cradles both plushies to her chest tenderly, slim arms circling. He eyes her hands, her thin wrists, her strong forearms. "Soul," she repeats, testing it, and he doesn't think his name has ever sounded quite so strange and right at once. She smiles at him, openly, and he's jealous for a moment at how easily she can wear happiness over anything so simple as a name. Soul's stomach curls and flutters, and it's definitely time for him to tap out and surrender defeat.

"Nap time," he grunts, snuggling himself back into her blankets. "Night, Maka."

"W-Wait, that's my bed!"

He nestles his head into her pillows. He feels what he's pretty sure is Totoro get punted into the back of his neck. "What time is it?"

"Like midnight!" Maka huffs. "Push over!"

"Don't you have an extra bed or something?"

"I'm a college student," she says, deadpan, and shoves him toward the wall. He gets a face full of stuffed bunny. "How much money do you think I have?"

He stares at the floral bedding and the mismatched sheets. "Obviously not a lot." Maka pinches him again and he shrieks, voice cracking and pitching up to hit octaves he hadn't thought possible post-puberty. " _OW,_  would you  _CUT THAT OUT-_ "

" _I shan't,_ " she whispers dangerously. Her breath warms his ear and he shivers involuntarily. The mattress dips beneath her weight and she wiggles her way into her blankets. A horrific sort of thrill sparks to life in the pit of his throat; is she planning on spooning him? How will she possibly fit into this tiny ass bed with him? Sure, she's lithe and thin and short, but he takes up a lot of space with his long arms and big feet.

She's nice, and very cute, and funny, but he's not ready for spooning yet. He's still surprised she actually had the gall to climb into bed with him in the first place. She shifts and turns, and he feels the swell of her behind bump against his.  _Oh._  Back to back it is.

He swallows thickly and tugs the blanket over his head. Her ass is soft and warm against his, and fuck, he's the biggest loser. The memory of her breath so close to his face, hot and challenging, lights a heat in his stomach. "Don't get me sick," she murmurs to him, hushed in the quiet of the night, and he hears the click of the lamp on the nightstand.

In the dark, he can think of nothing but the ghosts of her fingers on his forehead and the stuffed Totoro squished between them.

* * *

"-ON MY WATCH!"

"BLACK*STAR, NO."

He cracks his eyes and watches, sluggishly, as a muscled, blue-haired man towers over him. The guy puffs out his chest, raises an arm and proceeds to plow the people's elbow into Soul's stomach, screaming "BLACK*STAR  _YES!_ "

Soul unleashes every curse word he knows and curls up pitifully, clutching his abdomen. He bumps into what he thinks is the blue haired enforcer, but sighs in relief when he finds it's a yoga-pant clad thigh and presses his forehead against Maka for her protection.

"Oh no you don't, you entitled bastard!" the man screams again, grabbing Soul by the collar of his shirt and yanking him out of bed. "I don't know who you think you are, ditching me mid blowjob, but there's no way you're allowed anywhere near my baby sister. Justice will be served. History will not repeat itself."

"What," Soul slurs, numb and dizzy. Maka hides her face in her hands and groans out loud.

"You left me high and dry," Black*Star, he assumes, hisses. He spittles all over Soul's face. "And now you've come to sex up my little sister. I don't think so, buddy. I'm glad someone snapped your gaudy horns down to size. Your dick is next."

"'s not like I'm using it for anything," Soul groans, mourning his squished organs and ribs.

"Black*Star," Maka snaps, her voice slicing through her brother's righteous fury like a blade. She yanks Soul back by his shirt and he flops like a fish onto her lap uselessly. He may barely know her, but her embrace is preferable to  _that_ beast's. "I think you have the wrong guy."

He gives her a wild look, expression bunched up. He kicks over her chair, and then her beanbag. "How many white haired dudes with red eyes and horns do you know, Maka? What is he even doing here in your bed? You hate guys!"

"I do not  _hate_ guys."

"You broke my last boyfriend's arm," he says flatly.

Maka gasps. "He grabbed my ass!"

Black*Star runs his fingers through his hair. "That's not the point, Maka. He was gay anyway. He didn't mean anything by it- but this guy!" He points a finger at Soul ferociously, arm shaking. "He! He will fuck you up! He's not even hu-"

"Gay men aren't allowed to grab my ass any more than straight men are," she says primly, shoulders high, and Soul hides his face in her stomach. Her abs are firm beneath the worn cotton of her sleep shirt. Color him intrigued; tiny does not always mean delicate. She might be half his size, but there's no doubt in his mind that Maka could kill him if she really wanted to.

He decides not to give her a reason to, and instead to beg for her compassion. Maka wouldn't let him die to the hands of her berserker of a brother, would she?

Soul glances up at her desperately. "Please don't let him maim me."

"Don't worry," she pats his head. "He means well, he's just a moron."

"HE WILL DITCH BEFORE YOU FINISH!" her brother screams, yanking the blankets out from beneath them. Soul feels the earth move beneath his feet and grapples to his last line of salvation, Maka. "THIS IS NOT HOW YOU DESERVE TO LOSE YOUR V-CARD!"

In a fit of exasperation, Maka throws Soul back against the headboard and rises to her knees. She squares her shoulders and stares her brother down with impressive resolve and shouts his name. Black*Star lurches, paused mid-pillow strike, as Maka holds a hand out in front of her. Like a owner training her pet, Maka holds firm. "Put the pillow down and back away from the bed."

"But-"

" _Now._ "

Black*Star grumbles angrily and drops his feathery weapon of mass destruction onto the floor, oddly obedient for someone who had piledrived Soul not even minutes prior. Though it's clear that he didn't back down off of his own accord - Maka holds an odd sort of power over him, a strange little-sister vibe that has him standing down, albeit begrudgingly.

Once he stops muttering and Soul manages to crawl his way back into a semi-normal sitting position and rub his crooked neck, Maka explains. "This is Soul," she says slowly, as if talking to a toddler. Black*Star stares menacingly at him. "He fainted last night in my yard, so I took him inside and fed him. He's weak."

"Damn right he's weak," Black*Star murmurs under his breath. "Didn't even put up a fight."

"I was  _sleeping_ ," Soul snaps, still grouchy and drowsy. Being smacked around as punishment for dark deeds he did not commit isn't exactly his favorite way to be woken up. He would've much preferred a gentle shoulder tap. Or even being doused in water.  _Anything else_ , actually, would've been preferable.

Black*Star begins thundering up to him but Maka holds him back by his shoulder, her green eyes challenging. "He's my  _guest._  Not my boyfriend," she says. "Now back off and go bother someone else."

"Dad sent me," he huffs, shoving her hand away. Maka punches him in the arm in return, and he whacks her back. Soul worries briefly that they'll end up beating the shit out of each other, but Black*Star laughs as he pushes her head away and stretches his arms over his head. "We're going out to breakfast. Boytoy can't come."

" _Boytoy?_ " Soul repeats darkly.

"Unless you'd prefer bedcrawler?" he asks daringly, and the boyish, playful look is gone again in favor of alpha big brother Black*Star. Soul doesn't cower, but he does scoot back on his ass and glues his back against the wall instead.

The way he said 'bedcrawler' is too aware. Black*Star flicks his gaze where Soul knows his horns protrude, just barely, out of his mess of white hair, and holy shit. He  _knows_.

He puts the pieces together slowly; Black*Star demanding he get out of Maka's bed because he was no good, despite not knowing him, Black*Star getting a blow job from another white-haired red-eyed horned fellow,  _bedcrawler_ …

Fucking  _Wes._  How he always managed to get Soul into trouble was beyond him; he didn't need any damn help, he was fan-freaking-tastic at it himself. He makes a mental note to thank his darling big brother for nearly getting his dick ripped off because of a lack of damage control. He really couldn't blame Wes for ducking out early - Black*Star is ripped and doesn't know the meaning of using his inside voice - but Soul has to draw a line somewhere, and nearly getting mauled because of the family resemblance is far beyond skirting it. That's miles away and crossing the state border into California.

"Play nice, boys," Maka warns, before peeling Soul's legs off of her and climbing to her feet. "I'll get dressed and then we can head out. Happy?"

Black*Star stares at him expectantly. Soul picks at his nails. "What?"

"Dude," he says. "You're not staying in my sister's house alone. Get lost."

"He's sick," Maka snaps. "Just rest up some more, Soul. I'll bring you home leftovers."

It's a little funny, he thinks, that Maka is so supportive and defensive over someone she met only hours ago, but Soul can't find it in him to complain. He's not stupid enough to deny her help. He shuffles his way back under her blankets.

"Pigtails," Black*Star says warningly.

She gives his shoulder a shove. "Get out of my room before my curtains start to smell like Axe. Soul will be fine. It's just for a few days, anyway. Until he's on his feet."

When Maka shuts the door behind her, Black*Star leans in and whispers, "You're lucky she has a soft spot for strays." He says it threateningly, with a hiss, as he drags his finger menacingly over the base of his throat. "Or else,  _bro._  Don't think I don't know what you are."

"Oh really," Soul replies dryly. If only he was as good at not feeling as he is at concealing.

Black*Star growls. "My baby sister's not lunch. I don't care who you fuck, just not her. Keep your nasty dick out of her."

From the foot of the bed, Blair meows.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

As it turns out, "a few days" was the understatement of the century. Two and a half weeks later and Soul still finds himself standing in her kitchen making scrambled eggs.

For her, of course. Like he has any use for a human breakfast, but he's not about to bum it up at her place without paying his way somehow. And if he can't give her  _the hot dickings,_  as Wes continues to crudely suggest, then he will make breakfast. Perhaps do some laundry, too, but not without some whining and griping first.

It feels disgustingly domestic but Soul finds he doesn't mind all that much. Sure, cooking is weird when he doesn't end up eating any of it himself, and he's probably terrible at it, but it's soothing. It's always worth it for the look on Maka's face when she wakes up to find him wearing her pink apron and humming along to the radio. It's almost like he belongs there, in her home, with the mismatched plates and chipped Winnie the Pooh mugs. He's another contradiction, a tall incubus in a too-small frilly apron making eggs that he won't eat, and he fits right in.

It's wonderful to belong. It's a warm, pleasant feeling, one he hasn't felt in a long time. He finds himself grinning as he sprinkles cheese into the pile of eggs on the pan. Her favorite.

"Is that bacon I smell?" Maka chirps, shuffling in behind him, sock-clad feet surely gathering static electricity. He turns from the stove to watch her and laughs; she looks ridiculous in her knee-high fuzzy socks and lopsided pigtails. "Gimme one."

"Uh uh," he scolds, play swatting her hand away with a spatula. "Not yet."

She whines and pouts pathetically. "But  _Souuuuuul._ "

"No buts!"

"Are you going to have any?" she asks, scrubbing at her eyes. She sighs and stares at him with sleepy green eyes. "I'll set the table for two if you are."

"Nah, already ate," he lies. It's best to end it there; breakfast for him is running his fingers through her hair and helping her tie her pigtails, pressing his hands against her warm cheeks and coolly allowing her to fix his purposefully-tousled hair. None of it is sexual in nature, but it's still affectionate; the equivalent of eating a handful of nuts, probably, but it's  _something._  He's thriving on this new source of energy, thrilled to not be feeling deathly legarthic whenever he stands, dragging his feet everywhere he goes.

Maka smiles, brilliantly and full of a drowsy glee that fills him with lukewarm energy that starts at his toes. She looks tiny in her kitchen, wearing a too-big shirt and leaning her cheek against the cool metal of her refrigerator. He turns back and mashes the eggs with the flat of the spatula. He's too busy listening to the sizzle of Maka's breakfast to notice the sound of her socks sliding against the kitchen tile, and jerks when he feels tiny, firm hands lace around his abdomen.

"Mmmm," she hums, pressing her face into the center of his back. She links her arms around him limply and murmurs sleepy appreciation into the worn cotton of his sleep shirt. " _Warm._ "

Yes, yes he is. "Mmh," he grunts uselessly, a limp affirmative.

Her forehead balances against the curve of his spine and she stays there, leaning against him and soaking in his body heat. Soul momentarily thanks his demon body for doing all of the coercing for him and allowing him this lazy, sluggish moment of glee. One of his hands slides from the counter to cup over hers. His palm swallows the back of her hand, fingers and all, and he chuckles. She is so  _tiny_ ; it's nothing new but still  _boggles_  him, because Maka exudes confidence and spunk all the while being cute as a button, standing at a meager five foot three.

She exhales. Her voice is warm, and her breath spreads like an infection through him. It's like his whole body is blushing, radiating with a feverish, giddy heat from his center outward. Soul wets his lips and pushes the eggs around listlessly, distractedly. His thoughts rest in his other hand, where there are twitching knuckles and soft skin cupped delicately.

"Thanks," she mumbles, dazed. Maka is barely awake, has probably just rolled out of bed, and for whatever reason he can't stop thinking about her limbs tangled in pale pink sheets and her hair fanned out over puppy-printed pillowcases.

Her nose wiggles and presses against his spine. His hips give a jerk, and he grunts as he bumps into the counter. "Ow," he whines. That'll bruise nicely. "Uh… it's whatever?"

"It is  _not_  whatever." He can feel her smiling against his back. "It's  _nice._ You're so nice."

His heart gallops and he can't explain it. Might as well chalk it up to his complete lack of self worth and compliments thus far in life. "Careful, I might start asking for things in return. Like being fed grapes and fanned while I drape myself over your couch and play Goat Simulator."

Maka giggles and pats his stomach playfully. "You're right. I can't risk that."

She only wrinkles her nose and complains a little when he slides crispy bacon and burnt cheesy eggs in front of her. But it's her fault, he reasons, not that he'd ever tell her that, of course. She doesn't need to know that hugging him set his pulse ablaze in ways he can't even begin to understand himself.

"You get raisins and a noisy box fan," she retorts later, standing at the sink and rinsing her plate while he sits on the counter. "And we're watching a horror movie."

He probably deserves that. It doesn't stop him from gripping and tugging on a pigtail, though. She clicks her tongue and flicks soapy water at him, laughing when he shrivels away and blocks his face.

* * *

Helping out around the house is the least he can do, he knows that, but a momentary lapse in judgement has him folding her unmentionables and trying hard not to think about how private - and questionably  _intimate_  - it is.

Because Maka is genuinely  _kind_. Maka feeds him (unknowingly, of course, but he really doesn't think he's tricking her when she's the one reaching for his hand) and lets him sleep on her couch. She's allowed him to use her shower, her mirror, her stove, her television - and without asking for any sort of fiscal payment. He knows she doesn't make a lot of money; she's a college girl, after all, and works during her days off from school and pinches pennies. She does not have a centuries-old trust fund to fall back on like he does.

But freeloading feels scummy— even if he's a lazy piece of shit, admittedly— so he had done the right thing and offered to do some chores around the house.

Of all things, though, why  _laundry duty?_  Does she really trust him so blindly to allow him to handle her delicates? With her maniac of a brother, how does she trust any male with the task of washing and folding her pretty underthings? He has many questions and no answers, just a basket full of small-but-charming bras and simple, cotton panties.

(And other garments, too, of course, but folding a pair of jeans is less awkward than trying to figure out how to finagle her underthings into submission).

Occasionally he fumbles with the fancier pairs, ones with little bows on the front and delicate lace trim. They're nothing too enticing, all things considered; he's seen lingerie that's probably considered more seductive, lacy red little numbers in Liz's hamper, thongs draped over his brother's horns, but somehow he's more flustered trying to fold Maka's adorable underwear.

He chalks it up to their living arrangement. This makes him her temporary roommate, doesn't it? It's a little like being her brother. No brother should be forced to fold their sister's undies. It's cruel. And unusual.

Soul has no friggen idea how to fold panties, never mind her  _bras._  Is there an appropriate way to fold them? He always sort of figured that they just sorta existed in the top drawer, a grab bag of wonder and breast support.

He stares at a puppy printed bra, holds it up to the light, and tries to decide how to go about tucking the cups into each other.

The cat meows and Soul drops the garment as if it's burned him. Hell, it might've, if the redness scalding across his face is any indication. She sits herself right in the middle of the basket of laundry, tail swaying coyly.

He squints suspiciously. The cat - Blair, he remembers - purrs.

"I was folding those," he hisses. "Geddoff."

Blair tilts her head and watches him balk. Her fluffy kitty butt is planted right on Maka's socks and he fears that fur is being horribly integrated with the clean laundry. Is this his punishment for waiting until the last minute and taking a nap before doing what Maka asked him to?

"Seriously, cat, she's going to be home in like twenty minutes.  _Up._ "

Predictably, the cat doesn't move. She lays herself right there on top of Maka's underwear and snuggles her head into her one push up bra. Briefly, he contemplates lifting and moving her but decides against it; the cat has claws (pink painted claws?) and could probably tear him apart if Soul looked at her the wrong way.

It's not really a conversation he wants to have with Maka when she gets home.

He slouches over the basket of laundry and mopes. "Please."

" _Meow._ "

"I don't want to get evicted because of a hairball," he pleads.

Maybe he could tip the basket over and wiggle the clothes free.

But then again, he would run the risk of pissing off the cat and initiating a high speed chase through Maka's hallway. Her place isn't dressed to the nines, but she probably won't appreciate new scratch "decorations" adorning the outside of her bathroom door.

He's thinking way too hard over how to fold her damn underwear.

"I'll pay you," he stage-whispers, leaning in and narrowing his eyes at the cat. Her wet nose bumps against his as she stares him down. "Cold hard cash. Kitty litter. Name your price, pussycat."

Her tail curls and straightens gracefully. Soul huffs and crosses his arms.

And then she smiles at him. Something like an  _ah-ha!_  rings in the back of his mind and Soul thinks,  _this cat has been playing me for a fool for weeks._

"Nya," the damn cat  _says_. "All Blair wants is for demon-boy to use gentle hands on Kitten."

"I fucking knew it," Soul groans. " _Furry._ "

"Why do all talking cats have to be someone's fetish? Look in the mirror."

He recoils; it's hard to fight back and deny her when she's not wrong. He doesn't even want to know all the functions and settings his penis has. His only true knowledge is the thousands of years of reputation that comes with being one of his kind and Wes' retellings of threesomes and the joys of anal sex.

Blair licks her paws innocently. "Kitten deserves good orgasms."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

She holds out a paw and inspects her claws. "Blair has seen your tongue." Soul sputters and she grins, downright lecherous. " _And_ your package."

" _Wh-_ "

"Demon boy left the door open while he showered. Not the brightest sex toy in the dresser, hm?"

He burns red. "You didn't have to look!"

"Blair was curious," she says guiltlessly. "It's not every day you get the chance to peep on an incubus while he's not plowing someone into a mattress."

"That's not an excuse to watch someone shower!"

"And miss the show? Demon boy is hung like a horse," Blair practically purrs, and it's Soul that has all hair standing on end and back arching defensively.

He kicks at the basket of laundry and the cat hisses in self defense. Soul just about bears his teeth and returns the sentiment but thinks better of stooping to an animal's level (even if said animal is capable of human speech and other unconfirmed supernatural abilities). "Aside from your disregard for privacy," Soul scolds, ignoring Blair's grinning, "is there any other reason why you're here?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you pretending to be a normal cat?" he presses. "What the fuck. Why hang around Maka's apartment?"

Blair resumes grooming herself. "Free food?"

"Nope, try again. Maka hates fish."

" _Raw_ fish."

"Does it matter? It's all gross in the end."

The cat yawns, stretches, and straightens her tail into the air. If he were cruel, he might try to drag her back, but he decides against angering anything with claws and sits on his hands. Blair shrugs her little kitty shoulders. "Some of us don't just eat for taste. Kitten is kind and took Blair in, so Blair protects her from demons that want to suck her dry."

The accusation couldn't be further from the truth. "Hey, I never said anything about sleeping with her." He scowls. "Don't put words in my mouth."

She tilts her head suspiciously. "You don't want to?"

He laughs out a bitter rush of breath. "Would'a done it by now if I wanted to, don't you think?"

"Demon boy  _does_  look awfully thin. Aren't you hungry?"

"Nah," he bites sarcastically. "I  _like_  looking like a zombie. These sunken in cheeks are a fashion statement. All the A-listers are doing it nowadays. Get with the program, pussycat."

Blair takes pity on him and hops down from the laundry basket, brushing against his knee and swishing her tail as she goes. The pile of garments is no less daunting than before, but now sits with splotches of discarded cat fur scattered across. Damn cat. He glares at her as she saunters away, slipping through the crack of the door and disappearing into the hall, and Soul's left alone with mostly clean, half-folded laundry and a tiny, cute bra clenched in his fist.

He chances a look down. For whatever reason, it's way more enticing than any of Liz's lacier, red numbers. Soul decides not to dwell on it and crumples it into a ball. Maka can scold him for it later.

* * *

He didn't even know what wiffleball was and that's his first mistake, because asking about it meant he was in for a lecture, a la Maka Albarn, featuring special appearances by Google images and her wild hand gestures.

His second mistake was telling her it looked stupid and sweaty.

Soul trudges behind her, dragging a laughably yellow bat through the grass and wondering why he had been stupid enough to insult Maka's hobby - especially one that involves throwing balls at one another and tackling, probably. His speciality is brooding and snarky comebacks, not sportsball. But here he is, drawing shapes in the fresh-cut grass with a plastic bat and trying to blend in with the scenery.

"It'll be fun!" Maka encourages. She has a baseball cap on and her hair tied up in a simple low ponytail; he realizes, belatedly, that it's the first time he's seen her in anything but cute pigtails and childish pajamas or plaid skirts.

He grunts and kicks at the ground. "I don't do sports."

"Oh, lighten up!" she tries, still, moving to tug on his wrist. "Dad and Black*Star are really excited to play and we need a fourth."

"What about your mom?"

Her grip tightens. "Working."

"Don't you have any other friends that could cover for me?" he groans. "A boyfriend? Another trigger happy brother? Someone from church?"

She laughs out loud. "Church?"

"I'm hoping God will do me a solid."

"A little sweat won't kill you, Soul," she says matter-of-factly. Soul digs his heels into the ground and Maka drags him through the gated fence and onto the recreational field, leaving a trail of upturned dirt in their wake.

He stares into the sun, wondering if maybe it'll be kind enough to melt him into a paste in the dugout and spare him from the cruel injustice that is about to take place. "Why couldn't we play basketball?"

Maka jabs a finger into his side and he jerks violently. "Because you're tall and that's an unfair advantage."

She's entirely right; the only sport in which he feels even minorly able to hold his own against her and her clan is basketball, and it's entirely because he stands a good head taller than her. His arm span is more impressive in length and if that fails him, he's sure his fat head can block a few of her three pointers just by existing. Soul is less confident in his athletic ability and more banking on his shit luck and the magnetism between objects of concerning velocity and his face.

Black*Star comes barreling over, looking every bit as intimidating as he had two months ago when he decided to go WWE on Soul's sorry ass, and kicks up a cloud of dirt and shredded grass at him. Soul inhales, chokes on the dust and sneezes. Case in point, the universe hates him - all of him, really, but his face especially. He drags his hand down and wipes the dirt from his mouth, brow twitching.

"Lord, give me strength," he mutters solemnly.

"Whassat?" Black*Star cups a hand around his ear. "I think that was the sound of nobody caring."

"Dude." Soul squints at him. "Did you ever graduate from the eighth grade, or do you have junior high students ghostwriting all of your comebacks?"

"I know what you are but what am I?"

His heart says yes,  _fight back,_ but his soul says  _nonono, concussion imminent, do not pass Go._  One look at Black*Star's face tells him he should let sleeping bulls lie and allow him to continue thinking that he's cool, if just for the sake of keeping himself in one piece. His gut aches in phantom pains just thinking about it and  _nope,_ no thanks, Soul doesn't care to die today.

Wiffleball -  _whatever_  that is, because he's still dreadfully confused - will be pain enough. His talents lie elsewhere, like in making playlists and tinkering around on a grand piano, and not on the baseball diamond. Or anywhere remotely in the realm of physical exertion.

He's so fucked.

"Alright." A hand clamps down on Soul's shoulder and he jerks forward instinctively. "That's enough bullying your sister's boyfriend."

He swallows thickly and watches Maka's face color. "Dad! I told you already, Soul's just a friend."

"A friend you live with," he drones tonelessly, and Soul cranes his head, curious as to the type of man that could raise two children as reckless and intense as Black*Star and Maka. The answer is a very tall, very muscular man, with tattoos and dreads, and Soul swallows thickly, because apparently everyone in the Albarn clan could rip him to shreds. He has a sort of no-nonsense vibe about him, something that conflicts so violently with Black*Star's nature that it's sure to have inspired a few family feuds in the teen years.

"Uh, hey," Soul says, still trying very hard to keep his tone low. Be cool, be  _cool._  Getting his ass kicked by Maka's father is surely not something cool guys do. "Sir."

"Sir," he echoes, amused. "You can keep him, Maka. It's Sid."

 _You can keep him._  Soul burns, wriggling his way out of Sid's grasp and straightening out his shirt. He glances uselessly at the dirt of the infield and thinks that maybe wearing one of his nicer shirts was a mistake. There are grass stains and mud in his future and he's not looking forward to it.

"Right," Soul mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets. " _Sid._ Maka's just a friend."

"In that case, you're on my team," Sid says. "Besides, it looks like you could use the help."

"Ha!" Black*Star laughs, launching forward and clapping hands with his sister. "You're so on, old fart! We've got this in the bag."

The man is fluent in the art of ignoring his son's taunts. Soul's entirely jealous of his tenacity, because  _holy fuck,_  raising anything that loud and rambunctious must've been exhausting. He hopes Black*Star had a puppy phase, because at least he would've been tiny and cute enough to offset and excuse the pissing on the carpet and biting.

Sid slings a glove at Soul and he catches it with his chest, knocking the wind out of him. "Get behind the plate."

"I already ate, thanks."

Maka groans and presses a hand to her face, shaking her head. Black*Star snorts. "Bro."

"What."

"He means get behind the batter. You're gonna be the catcher."

Soul stares. "So I… catch the ball?"

"He's brilliant, pigtails," Black*Star rolls his eyes and doesn't flinch when Maka smacks him upside the head. "A real catch. Congratulations."

"That's a terrible pun and you should feel bad about it."

"Get along," Sid scolds. Maka bristles and huffs, folding her arms while Black*Star sticks out his tongue and blows raspberry. Sid doesn't even have it in him to look exhausted.

They're an  _interesting_  bunch for sure, but somehow Soul thinks he and Wes still take the cake. Or the whole dessert table, whatever. At least nobody has tried suckering him into a threesome yet. Whether or not wiffleball will be as physically and mentally taxing as having sex with two different people at once is up in the air, but somehow Soul is still very, very sure that there's an ice pack back home with his name on it. But nonetheless, he creeps behind Black*Star and stands awkwardly.

Black*Star grips the bat and rests it on his shoulder. "You make this too easy. Look alive!"

Is there a better position for ball catching? He holds both of his hands out, palms spread, and widens his stance. If he's not in a better position to catch the ball, at least he's in a better position to stop it; he resembles a soccer goalie, and Soul is plenty prepared to stop that basketball from getting by him and scoring a touchdown. He smugly notices that his arm span far outshines Black*Star's.

Maka hides a giggle behind her glove. "You're supposed to crouch, Soul."

Oh. Well, that just seems silly and doesn't make a lick of sense; why make himself tinier? Is the goal not to keep the ball from getting past him? There's not a chance in Hell that he's going to successfully catch whatever fastball Sid throws him barehanded. His hands are large and his fingers dexterous but he's not Superman.

"No thanks," he says. "I'm good."

"But-"

"Leave him be," Black*Star cackles and props the bat back, tightening his stance. Soul watches his legs shift curiously, watches him clench his hands more firmly around the handle of the yellow plastic. "He'll figure it out."

* * *

"How was I supposed to know the bat was going to hit me in the face?"

Maka heaves a sigh and kneels before him, package of frozen corn in hand. He whines again, miserably, and she shakes her head and presses the veggies against his split lip before he has the chance to say anything else. "I told you to crouch," she says feebly, as if it's an excuse for her brother to have whacked the shit out of him with a plastic bat, and he flinches away from the numbing of the ice to curl his lips and scowl at her. "I did!"

"A little warning would've been nice," he pouts. "A reason. I thought I was supposed to be afraid of the  _ball,_  not the bat."

"Do you have no sense of depth perception?" she huffs, pressing the makeshift icepack against his mouth more forcefully than before. "How did you not see that coming? He had to swing the bat, Soul."

"That was an attack! Your dad agrees with me. Black*Star went for my face in cold blood."

The laughter that followed was evidence enough that Black*Star had been waiting for a moment to strike him again. He deserved no such treatment; he is  _bleeding_  now, the true victim in the end, and yet somehow Maka's still blaming him. How is that fair?

She shakes her head, lip bitten, and doesn't say anything else. He's not sure if it's because there's no real excuse for Black*Star's eager aggression or if she doesn't know how to apologize and admit that she's wrong. And okay, sure, maybe he's overreacting a bit - it is just a split lip, he supposes - but he bled! He was assaulted in broad daylight! With children around! He did nothing to deserve this. He did nothing wrong, aside from maybe trusting Black*Star with a weapon within the direct vicinity of his face.

Soul stares back at her as she purses her lips. She's rather cute in a baseball cap, actually, even with sweaty bangs and the dust from the infield dirtying her nose. Up close, he can almost count the freckles that dust along her eyelids and over the high points of her cheeks, so faint and fair but still noticeable. And her eyelashes are so blonde, so light, fluttering over the swell of her cheeks as she flickers a glance up from his mouth, eyes warm.

He swallows thickly. How can he feels so hot when there's frozen corn pressed up against his lip?

"Are you feeling any better?" she asks gently, maternally.

He can't help but crack a slight grin. "Yes,  _Mom._ "

Maka clicks her tongue and moves the ice pack, inspecting the damage. He guesses it isn't too bad, because she doesn't flinch, but she does drag the pad of her finger over his bruised lip. His breath catches in his throat.

"Hurt?" Her voice is soft and tender. Her touch almost tickles, so gentle and ginger over the battered skin of his lips, cracked and split and probably stained with blood.

He wants to lick his lips and taste her skin. It's the strangest thing, and he resists. "Not really. Just weird."

She raises a brow. "Weird?"

" _Different_."

Her finger traces his lip and he breathes slowly. She's searching, meticulous, and part of him wants her to stop, because there's a bubbling in his chest and keeping his breath even is proving difficult. He's had girls under him before, touching him in more intimate ways, and it's never felt quite as private and soul searching as this does. He's pretty sure his heart is going to explode out of his chest. Maka has one hand on his knee and her fingers tighten protectively, securely, and somehow his have found their way over her shoulders. She's firm beneath his grasp and so,  _so_  sure - so much more sure than he's ever been about anything.

She moves in slowly and gives him plenty of time to move away. He doesn't budge. He wants, he  _wants,_  and the sensation is so empowering and strange and gratifying that no force in the world could tear him away.

There have been a handful of kisses prior in his life; his first kiss, a cute redhead that sat across from him in his sophomore year math class, hadn't made his palms sweat. And even kissing Liz, who he had intended to sleep with, hadn't made his pulse race, but the feeling of Maka's mouth moving gently against his was like liquid magic. Her lips were soft and the kiss mellow, but the fire that burned through him was anything but tender.

It's more than hugs in her kitchen and awkward hand holding when they cross the street. It's life, a jolt of energy so diluted from the briefness of her kiss - just a peck, even though he finds himself wanting so much more - that spreads through his throat and warms him down to the center of his chest.  _What is this feeling?_  he wonders, astonished, because there's never been anything quite like this before in his life, nothing quite like gentle kisses and breathing easy, despite his rushing, slamming heart.

He opens his eyes, despite not being able to pinpoint when he'd closed them, and watches her smile.

"There," she whispers, and then pecks his nose for good measure. "Kissed it better."


	4. Chapter 4

"Eat an entire dick, Wes."

His brother smiles, simpering, and sips his tea. "You say that like I haven't-"

"Stop," Soul whines. "Do  _not._  Don't you dare."

He hums innocently and continues sipping, brows raised. Wes doesn't need to say anything to get under his skin; Soul can already hear his playful laughter, the smug bastard, and it only makes him scowl and sink further back into his seat. The teacup is set down onto the table gently before Wes fiddles with the length of his impressive horns, still smiling in satisfacion at him. Soul clenches his fists on the table. "Do what now?"

" _That_ ," he huffs. "I know you're comfortable bragging about whose pants you've gotten into, but I really don't need to know. By the way,  _Black*Star_? Really?"

Wes goes pale. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

For someone ordinarily so collected, it's suspicious. Wes pushes his hand through his hair and refuses to meet Soul's eye.

He's lying.  _This is it,_  Soul thinks,  _the moment I've been waiting for._  Years of living in his perfect shadow and dealing with nightly texts retelling his evening endeavors have prepared him for this revenge, and Soul nearly jumps from his seat, he's so excited. At last, the shoe is on the other foot. Wes has made a fatal mistake in getting into bed with Black*Star, even for a moment, and Soul will milk it for all it's worth.

"He's hard to forget," Soul says ruthlessly. "Short, ripped, blue hair. Uses too much hair gel. Bear arms."

" _Soul_ ," Wes pleads. All traces of smugness is gone; he looks disheveled, regretful.

"He remembered  _you._  He thought I was you and tried beating the shit out of me." Soul glares, leaning in closer and planting his hands down on the table. It's time to go in for the kill and Soul sort of hopes his brother cries a little at his own shame. Serves him right for thinking even for a moment that Black*Star was beddable. "Said you left him high and dry-?"

Wes clears his throat. "I thought I could handle it. I was wrong."

"Wording." Soul cringes. "Less innuendo."

"Take care of it, sorry. End of story."

"Shit, Wes, what did you do? Choke on it?"

His brother goes silent. Soul's stomach curls just thinking about the finer details of deep throating  _Maka's_ brother. He wonders if he's as hairy  _everywhere_  as he is on his arms. He then banishes that thought far from his conscious mind and contemplates pouring Wes's tea in his eyes to distract himself from that horrific mental image. He can't stop picturing _blue jungles_ , wild, untamed wilderness.

Somehow, he doubts the lion was sleeping in  _that_ mighty jungle.

" _Wes,_ " Soul gasps, disgusted and appalled.

"I made a mistake. We all do it."

"Eugh." Soul gags, slumping into his seat and planting his face into his hands.  _Gross nasty._

"Yes, well, how do you think I felt? That's sort of how I sounded, too-"

Before he can finish, Soul clasps his hands over his ears and howls. He regrets ever instigating this conversation because it has backfired spectacularly. Wes raises a brow at him and Soul shakes his head, mortified. "NO MORE," he cries. "UNCLE. I GIVE."

Wes shrugs, but looks relieved that the topic has been exhausted. Soul supposes he didn't really want to talk about it either, even if it is a chance to make him squirm. His brother has standards, a line in the sand, and apparently Black*Star is that line. "You asked," Wes says simply when Soul finally lowers his hands. His big brother doesn't even flinch at the dirty look he sends him. "And I answered. By the way, did I tell you about the fellow I spent the night with last night?"

"Christ," Soul groans, praying that his brother's taste has been refined since the now infamous  _choking incident_. "The one with the dreads?"

"No," Wes shakes his head, "the curious one that could turn into a sword-"

"You kinky motherfucker," Soul hisses. "No, you know what? I'm done. I can handle you banging all of my friends, whatever, but leave inanimate objects out of it. They did nothing wrong."

His grin is downright mischievous. "He wasn't  _inanimate_  though, dear brother," he chimes, and Soul can't get to his feet fast enough. "He could turn into a sword. Sure, he was mouthy, but I think you can tell how that might be beneficial-" The scraping of his chair on the floor momentarily mutes Wes' tirade "- but ultimately, I have to say, the pommel really was the best part of his weapon form."

"I don't want to know why you know sword terminology," Soul scowls, tugging on his leather jacket.

"Hm?" Wes smiles innocently, clearly happy to be back in his element. He controls the conversation and he loves it. "Oh, you know. I'm a fanatic. But I haven't had sex with all of your friends, Soul."

"Please leave Jackie alone."

"No, no, not her," Wes shushes, waving his hand. "I was talking about your new friend, Maka. In fact, I haven't even met her!"

Soul snorts. "And you're not going to."

"Soul," Wes says slowly. "I would like to meet your new friend. She sounds very sweet! Any girl that picks up after your mess clearly is heaven sent. Are you sure she's not actually an angel in disguise? Have you seen her naked? Because sometimes their wings are very small and tricky, but they're  _there_ -"

The most he's seen of Maka is a whole lot of leg. And while said legs are beautiful and clearly God put a little more time into her legs than he did the rest of humanity, he seriously doubts she's actually an angel. Sure, she sort of glows as of late when he looks at her, but that's no halo; and it's only when it's late at night, when she's leaning over him to turn off the lamp and the light catches the gold hues in her hair just right. It's probably more him being an uncool, sappy dope than her being heavenly.

But sometimes he wonders. She has a certain grace about her, a certain blinding charity and kindness that makes him think maybe she's a little more than human. She's got spunk, a fire. However, there are no wings, no halos or horns, no siren song or fangs; she's just Maka.

Soul rather likes  _Just Maka_ , way more than he ever intended or foresaw, and part of him wonders if Wes can tell.

He clears his throat and pops his collar. "No," Soul mumbles. "She's just… nice. And naive."

Wes' brows crinkle. "So you've seen her naked? You know for sure?"

" _No._ "

"Oh," Wes pauses, as if he's collecting his thoughts. He looks directly at Soul and he feels as though he's under a microscope. He burns. "I assumed. I mean, I know it's crude, but - you seem lively, Soul. And you don't look so deathly ill."

"Gee, thanks. Glad to know you always thought I was a stunner, Wes."

"That's not what I meant," he shakes his head. "I  _thought_  you were sleeping with her. And I was a little worried, to be honest, because you know we're supposed to disperse ourselves among several partners for their wellbeing. This Maka sounds very nice, and I don't think you'd want to purposefully hurt her, but-"

"I  _know,_ " Soul cuts him off; he feels shaky, fidgety, and dammit, he's definitely blushing something fierce. "I'm not sleeping with her. I'm not  _you._ "

If Wes takes offense to that, he doesn't show it. He folds his hands neatly on the table and crosses one leg over the other, ever the picturesque gentleman when he's not busy sucking (and choking on, apparently) dicks and pleasing two ladies at once. "It's fine if you are, though," Wes says slowly, never taking his eyes off of him. Soul feels himself bristle. "Because it's not healthy to not feed, Soul. Just take her in moderation. Do you like this girl?"

"I've never liked anyone," Soul scowls.

Wes smiles, but he can see how badly he wants to roll his eyes. His brother is too polite to call him out on his dramatic ways, however, and simply shrugs. "Things change."

"She's just a friend." That kissed him. That he enjoyed kissing - and he's never really enjoyed kissing, not really, and even just thinking about it makes his heart skip, like he's thirteen and crushing on the head cheerleader or something. "It's nothing. She's nothing special to me."

"You're spending an awfully lot of time with her," Wes says. His brother tilts his head curiously. "And you don't think she's anything special?"

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and rubs the back of his neck. Is it hot in here, or is it just him and his blatant lies? "I didn't say that."

"You said she wasn't special."

"To me," Soul clarifies. "Nothing special  _to me._  She's a friend who gives good backrubs and has a comfortable bed."

Wes smiles slowly. Soul realizes a moment too late what he's done.

"You have been in her bed."

"She put me there!"

Fuck. Wes grins wider, proudly, and stands to clap a hand onto his shoulder. Soul has made his bed and now he has to lie in it. "We just might be related yet, little brother. Did you give her the ol' razzle dazzle?"

Soul's halfway to the door and yet he still can't escape Wes's tirade. He runs a hand through his hair and tries to collect his cool. He fails spectacularly and thinks about kissing Maka, and how she smiles and laughs and rolls her eyes when he chews with his mouth open. "No," he huffs. "I  _haven't._ "

Wes watches him curiously. "... But…?"

He hates how well his brother can read him. What can he say?

"It's confusing," he confesses. "I don't know. I've never given half a shit about anything or anyone like this. I don't want to stick my dick in her and just have that be it."

 _Because I'm afraid I'll screw it up_  goes unsaid. Because he's afraid of getting into the heat of it and letting her down because he can't deliver, because even though he thinks about her all of the time and enjoys being with her more than anyone else, he's still never quite felt the drive before. Maka is important to him, and the last thing he ever wants to do is get her hopes up just to let her down spectacularly.

Soul's shoulders ache and he slouches; his body feels heavy again, dreary, like there's a weight in his chest.

His brother softens. The playful quirk in his brow loosens and Wes sits straighter, watches him carefully. "Do you like her, Soul?"

"Wouldn't hang out with her if I didn't."

He sighs. "Soul."

"Don't wanna talk about it." Except he does, but maybe not with the same guy that just admitted to fucking a sword.

His brother turns in his seat to face him. "Soul," he says. "If you need someone to talk to about it, you know I'm always here, right?"

Soul grunts. Sure he knows that; but he also knows that while Wes does care, he's busy sleeping with the entirety of the adult population at the moment and that's just a little bit distracting. It's proof that Wes doesn't understand what he's going through - how can he, when everything comes so easily to him? When attraction isn't a bleak, desolate wasteland? Because Soul has never felt quite like he has around Maka before, not ever, and explaining it to him couldn't be simple. The issue isn't just Soul's complete inability to be seductive in the slightest - it's also his disinterest in everyone, sans Maka, apparently.

And even then, that's confusing in itself. When he first met her he hadn't wanted to kiss  _her_  any more than he wanted to kiss anyone else. Sure, he had thought she was cute and funny, but that had never changed anything before; Jackie also has those traits, and he's never once wanted to stick his tongue in her mouth before. Why Maka? Why now?

He's afraid that liking her is a fluke. He's afraid it will fade and he'll be back to where he was before, not really wanting anything and starving, settling for hugging sexually frustrated people in elderly homes. It's not fair to her, he thinks, if he tries to start a relationship with her when he's pretty damn sure the attraction will fade.

More than anything else, he's scared it's just a one time thing, something that'll change with the season. He  _likes_  liking her. He likes the way he feels around her, even if it's new and intimidating and his heart always feels like it's going to leap out of his chest at any given moment. He's never felt quite so alive in his life, never felt quite so real.

So he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and scowls. "Yeah, Wes," he grunts. "Sure."

"And you really don't like her?"

"... A bit." Or a whole lot. Like 'dreaming about waking up next to her and actually letting her spoon him this time' a lot.

Wes smiles sincerely, without a trace of any of his good-natured ribbing or brotherly taunts. "More than a bit, I think."

Lying is so hard in the face of his big bro. Goddamnit. Soul looks up at the ceiling and scratches the back of his neck, because looking him in the face is too embarrassing and he is way too new at this  _crush_  thing, if that's what this really is. "She kissed me," he blurts, the admittance hot on his tongue.

He can hear his brother gasping happily and Soul's face burns. "She did?! No wonder why your skin isn't so ashy!"

" _Wes._ "

"Sorry, sorry." He clears his throat. "If you're really that confused about it, just talk to her. Obviously she has some feelings for you. From what you've told me, it doesn't sound like she'll demonize you for having your concerns."

Soul stares at him.

"... Maybe demonizing was the wrong word choice, all things considered."

"You think?"

Wes beams. "Oh, whatever! I need to invest in getting you a celebratory cake. Soul has a little girlfriend! You do know I'm obligated to tell Mother, right?"

Soul turns around and power walks through the door. He makes sure to slam it on his way out, just to really emphasize his point. He definitely doesn't want to be around when Wes breaks out the streamers and penis-shaped confetti.

* * *

"Uuuuugh," Maka groans, pushing her textbook away. "Political science can go suck an egg."

She looks a lot like a toddler refusing her peas and carrots. Cheeks puffed and nose flared, she tilts her head and pouts at him miserably.

Snorting, he flicks her nose and flops down, effectively invading her space. His head finds the spot on her lap where her textbook once was and nestles his ass into the crack of the couch. Maka's couch is worn and has seen better days, was probably bought second hand, but it's comfortable and nothing like the leather loveseats that Wes keeps around their shag-pad. It's not meticulously color-matched to the exact shade of the curtains; it's ugly, faded mauve with overstuffed throw pillows, and he snuggles himself into the abyss of padding and subjects himself to possibly never returning. Will Maka be able to pull him out? Maybe. But it's fine if she doesn't. At least he'll die happy and cozy.

"Don't drool on my leg," she says. "I was studying, you know."

"Pfff," he says. Flopping over, he rests on his back instead and stares up at the underside of her chin. "You were giving up. Quitter."

"I was not! I was just frustrated. I have to get this done."

"Homework is boriiiing," he whines. "Do shit with me."

Cuddling should not be so beneficial to him but it is. It's not inherently sexual - he's not feeding, all things considered, but it sure as hell feels close to it. There's a humming in his chest, in his very being, a dull heat bleeding through his soul. He gladly soaks in it, drowsily staring at the way her brows crinkle when she brushes her finger over his ear. Her fingers on his skin leave goosebumps in their wake, trails of excited flesh and warmth.

Her thumb brushes over his cheek. "You're such a puppy," she mumbles.

His tail squirms in his pants and he kind of wants to laugh, because she doesn't even know the half of it. She doesn't know about the way his heart leaps in his chest when she smiles at him, or when she offers a hand to him when they're out walking or buying groceries.

Those flutters in his chest are new and scary. He swallows it down and wrestles his expression into a firm line, frowning passionately. "Am not."

"Are too." Her fingers skim down along his jaw and curve along his chin. "You need to shave. You're getting stubbly."

"Uuuuugh," he groans and rolls over, effectively stuffing his face into her lap. Her hands acquaint themselves with the hair along the back of his neck instead, combing and stroking idly. "Too much work."

"Mhm," she hums. "Sure."

"You don't know shit, Miss Bare Face."

"Hey!" She pinches the back of his neck and he squeaks very coolly, thank you very much. "Try shaving your legs, buster."

And she has so much leg to shave, too. He tries hard not to think about it while his face is smooshed down into the plush of her thighs. It's decidedly inappropriate, and he's not in the business of ruining his chances of keeping his favorite pillow. "Neh," he grunts uselessly. His limbs have effectively become sated, content pudding and he never wants to move. Can he have his mail sent here?

Her skin is  _so warm_. Or is that his face? He can't tell. Everything is soft and smooth and cozy, and Soul just about melts when Maka tugs his hat off and smoothes her fingers through his mop of hair. She works through the tangles and matted bits gingerly, cooing quietly about the dangers of hat hair and how he should just go without because he has nice hair and it's a shame to hide it. He grunts and hopes he's nestled deep enough into the crease between her legs to hide his horns. And even if he's not, it's still cozy enough for him to ignore the bubbles of anxiety gargling in his throat.

Maka's fingers comb through the hair behind his ear and he groans aloud. His mouth is a damp, slack 'o' of heat along her thigh and he really hopes she doesn't mind. Saliva is _everywhere_.

"Soul," she warns quietly.

"Eeeuuugh."

There's no way he's moving. Maka can't make him do  _shit_. When she's got her hands in his hair and her skin beneath his cheek he's pretty much a useless, gargling pile of a boy. He nestles himself further, his nose effectively lost in the space between her thighs. His face is definitely hot when he asks her, sluggishly, if she'll scratch his back, too, and groans again when she sighs and complies.

"That's the good stuff," he slurs. "Fuck."

She forces air through her nose, clearly trying to stifle her laughter. "Keep it PG-13, Soul."

"Lowerrrrrrrr," he moans. Her hand shuffles farther down his back and scrubs and - oh, yes,  _definitely_ ,  _that's the spot._  His hips dig into the couch and he scoots into her touch greedily. "Fhuuuuuk…"

Maka seems to have realized that she'll be getting no work done with him sprawled on her lap, because she finishes kicking her text book away before making her way up his back again, all nails and firm rubs of the heel of her palm. He drools again, shamelessly, and lets his shoulders finally go lax as she works her way back up. Her nails scrub at the base of his neck and just behind his ear and he practically  _howls_ , it's so good.

"How was your visit with your brother?" Maka asks, and Soul's too far gone to do anything more than grunt. She lightly tugs on his hair to get his attention. "Soul."

"Fine," he says blearily. "Wes is Wes. He fucked a sword."

He can imagine the horror in her expression. Just picturing it is humorous. "...That seems like it would really hurt."

"Mmmm, don't wanna talk about it. I'm gonna have nightmares tonight about it. Don't wanna drag you down into the pits of Hell with me. You have class tomorrow."

Maka cards her fingers through his hair again and he sighs happily. "Bright and early," she agrees, and he presses his mouth against her skin before he has the chance to really think about it. She pauses briefly, hands stilling, and his shoulders tense in mortification. Has he overstepped his boundaries?

That's the last thing he wants to do. He doesn't want her to feel uncomfortable around him. Or self conscious.

But he's so goddamn confused;  _what are they_? She kissed him a week ago and he still gets red in the face when he thinks about it and how soft her mouth was against his. In fact, he thinks about her lips all the time now. Watching her do anything is near impossible because he always ends up staring at her mouth instead and wondering if it would be okay if he kissed her, or if she would kiss him, or if it would be okay if they just sort of fell and let their mouths find one another.

But her fingers curl through his hair again and then there's a thumb stroking along his cheek, so breathtakingly simple and gentle that it makes his heart catch in his throat and his face burn all the more.

"Soul," she says again, softly.

 _Don't fuck this up, Evans_. "Huh?"

"I want ice cream."

… Alright, so not exactly what he was expecting. He falters, pulse thundering, and cranes his neck to look at her. He feels a little foolish for thinking (hoping) that she would kiss him again, or at least talk about what happened.

"Maka," he says slowly. "It's like nine at night. On a Tuesday."

Her hand slides down the curve of his jaw and she drags her fingers down his neck. She grazes his throat with the ghost of a touch and he can't help the way his mouth droops open. She's so pretty with her hair down, dressed only in a too-big night shirt and a simple smile, bare faced and sleepy. There's a crinkle between her brows that he wants to smoothe out with his thumb; she works so hard and studies so much, and she's so smart, so bright.

Maybe she deserves that ice cream.

"Come on," she says, and her thumb circles his collar bone, just beneath the neck of his shirt. His breath catches as she rubs lazy shapes into his skin. "Let's get some ice cream. My treat."

* * *

There's no way in Hell he's going to let her pay for her own ice cream.

Not on their first date, anyway.

Her hand clasps around his and everything is right in the world for a moment. Her fingers slide comfortably into the spaces between his and she squeezes his hand tighter, tugs him along as she leads the way. Self consciously, he fiddles with his hood with his free hand and tugs it further down his head, shielding his horns from view, then resumes slouching over her. He's taken to huddling over her and he can't place why he keeps gravitating over to do it. It could be because she's cute and he feels the need to selfishly make his presence known when they're out in public so other potential mates think twice about stealing her away, but he's also pretty sure that it's because she's bold and brave and if anyone looked at him the wrong way, Maka could snap them in half.

Crowds are discouraging anyway. He's really never quite liked being around people - large sums of people, especially - and Maka's become sort of a safe haven for him. She's validating but not smothering, caring but not insensitive.

And she smells like tea and simple perfume, clean shampoo and dollar-store hand soap. That makes it a lot easier to be around her, too. It's like she has a tether to him; she's a pull, a giant draw, and he has impressive self control but apparently not when it comes to her. Never with her. She could probably tell him to bark and roll over and he'd damn well try.

But more than anything else, he really likes holding her hand. Her fingers are thin and her palms are tiny but she's so strong, and her grip makes him feel protected and safe. It makes walking out at night a little less threatening; after passing out on her lawn, he hasn't really made much of an effort to go out at night since. Something about it doesn't bode well for him. He gets bad vibes about it, because even though he quite likes being alone from time to time (it helps him recharge, because social interaction is fucking _exhausting_  sometime), being alone in the dark is something else.

He's effectively the sissiest demon this side of the underworld, fuck it all.

"I think I want a cone," Maka says. "Strawberry?"

"Bleh," he blurts.

"Vanilla?"

He just about squawks but tries to hide it by clearing his throat and clenching her hand. That's a terrible idea. Vanilla ice cream looks a little too much like a certain  _something else_  for his own state of mind. Maka glances back at him and raises a curious brow. Soul tries to straighten his expression out into something that isn't mild horror and questionable excitement.

"What do you have against happiness and deliciousness?" she teases lightly. "Vanilla is good. In fact, I think I want vanilla."

Of course she does. Why would she want anything else?

Lo and behold, when she orders a small vanilla on a sugar cone, he's disappointed but not surprised.  _Disappointed_  because he keeps staring at her as she licks and sighs like the goddamn pervert he didn't know he was. As if he wasn't fixated with her mouth enough before. It's ridiculous how hard it is for him to draw himself away from her lips, from her tiny pink tongue lapping at white ice cream and sighing delectably.

He groans and collapses into the park bench dramatically. "No more walking. I can't go on."

"Baby," she chastises lightly, but doesn't drop down to sit beside him just yet. "You know, you didn't have to pay for me. You didn't even get anything, Soul!"

"Like I'd let you pay for your own shit on a date," he says grumpily.

He bristles once it's out of his mouth. Shit, fuck, what if it  _isn't_  a date? But Maka doesn't gasp in offense or tense; she hums in content and plops down next to him, eating her treat merrily and brushing her knee against his.

It  _is_  a date.

Thank goodness. It's really, really nice to know that they're on the same page.

Gathering his wits, he chances a look at her. She smiles at him, big and wide, with pink cheeks and bright eyes and oh god, she's the cutest thing he's ever seen. How unfair. The light from the dull streetlight encases her and he wonders if Wes was right, if Maka really is heaven sent or some other cheesy shit like that.

And then the little brat smashes her ice cream in his face.

"Brain freeze!" she squeals, jumping up from the bench and smashing her cone on the ground.

Soul sputters, hastily smearing melted ice cream from his nose and face and tearing from his seat at once. She grins at him mischievously and chants, "Catch me if you can!" as she breaks out into a sprint, and of course within moments he's barrelling ass after her. She might be more physically capable than he is, but he's nothing but long limbs and a man betrayed, and he catches up to her and fullbody tackles her to the ground with a great shout.

Maka gasps as she tumbles and hits the ground. She writhes and wiggles her way around, turning herself over so that she's facing him as he groans and regrets even thinking about running. He's no linebacker, that's for sure.

He balances himself on his forearms and stares down at her. She giggles, even though she's got dirt on her nose and grass in her loose hair. "That was uncalled for," he says lowly, trying hard to glare and not fall into her laughter. "That was three bucks wasted."

"Four," she reminds him sweetly. "You tipped her."

"She works hard, scooping ice cream for ungrateful nerds like you."

"Heeeey," she whines, and he lets himself lean close. Forehead to forehead, she goes quiet, and he can't help but admire the length of her lashes and the slope of nose.

They fall into a lull of silence. A comfortable silence, where he gets to watch her blink and admire the delicate way her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks. He doesn't have the courage to make a move, not yet, but he's on his way to working up the nerve to do more than rest against her, soaking in her breath. She exhales, all heat against his lips and he wants to give in, wants to close his eyes and taste her for real, but he's never done anything like it and he can't help but shake the fear that he might screw it up.

It's all so new and scary, but if Maka's leading him through, he thinks he can manage it. Especially if she holds his hand.

"... Hey," he says finally, leaning back just enough to watch her bite her lip.  _Crap._  "Maka."

"Soul?"

"Is it cheesy if I want to kiss you on the first date?"

She smothers her smile. "Well," she says slowly, as if she's pondering her answer. "You did buy me three dollar ice cream."

"Four," he reminds. "Tip."

Maka laughs tenderly and raises a hand to cup his cheek. "Just kiss me, Soul."

Her mouth is cold but sweet. Her lips are freezing and it's entirely the ice cream's fault, but it's delicious and she's soft and so willing beneath him, craning her neck to gain a better angle to kiss him. Kissing Maka unleashes a storm within him; it is not the gentle peck she gave him prior, that much is for sure. It's not hurried or steamy but it's still passionate, and Maka cradles his jaw with her hands and sighs happily against his mouth. And because he's a loser softie on the inside and he's kissing a girl that makes him  _feel_ like vanilla ice cream, he closes his eyes and lets himself melt against her, lets her lead.

Each quiet gasp of his name fills him with a burst of energy, a sunspray of life. He dots her entire face with gentle pecks, little butterfly kisses over her cheeks and the top of her nose, her forehead.

"Soul," she giggles, and he kisses her mouth again, too.

"Shhh."

"Soul," she says again. "We can do this at home. I'm hungry."

He pouts and presses his forehead against hers once more. "And whose fault is that?"

Maka smiles innocently and Soul doesn't even have it in him to snarl. Hell, he can't even pout; the smile on his face isn't going anywhere anytime soon and he's completely okay with it. He kisses her one more time for good measure and watches her face go lax, watches her cheeks pink and her eyes shut in satisfaction.

"... You planned this," he mumbles against her mouth, realization dawning upon him.

She nods, unable to keep kissing him when she's grinning so victoriously. He can't find it in him to be mad; he thinks kissing her again is a better punishment, and he's pretty sure she agrees wholeheartedly. After all, she's got one hand tangled in his hair and the other clenched in the fabric of the back of his sweatshirt.

And even though he could lay there forever, even though he would willingly ignore the cramping in his neck for the sake of kissing Maka and nestling Maka, it  _is_  nighttime and she visibly shivers beneath him. It's not because he's biting her neck or anything, either; it's because it's cold, and because she's not wearing any sort of jacket or sweater.

He heaves a breath and pulls himself to his knees. Soul holds out a hand to her as he stands and she takes it.

"Home?" she asks sleepily.

He snorts; it's way past her ten o'clock bedtime. "Yeah," he says, and tugs her over to embrace her and share his heat. She sighs and presses her face into his shoulder, soaking in his warmth. "You're cold."

"Mmm," she hums. "We can't waddle there like this. We're not penguins."

"Here," he says, beginning to shrug out of his sweatshirt. He's not really using it for anything but the hood, anyway, and it's dark. It should be fine. It's hard for him to stand there, warm and cozy, while Maka's teeth clatter.

Her eyes widen and she gasps. "It's fine! Really, we're not far from home-"

"It's fine, Maka," he says, ignoring any further attempts to convince him otherwise.

Maka holds down the hem of his shirt as he struggles his way out of his red hoodie. Before she can do anything else, he smothers it over her head and tugs the sleeves down over her arms. Her head pokes from the neck at last and he stops to admire the view because she's adorable swaddled in too-big clothing - his clothing! - and pouting at him, hair staticy and face flushed.

"You're cold too, though," she says, pouting. She's got her sleeves rolled up to her wrists, and the neck of the sweatshirt is so wide that one of her shoulders could probably slip through.

He combs his fingers through her hair, half to sort her frizz out and half to rid her hair of dead grass and leaves. "It's fine. We're not far," he reasons and really, he's got so much energy humming through his veins that he's not even worrying about the cold. He links his fingers with Maka's and lets her hurry him home, because  _it's cold out, Soul, you're going to catch something,_  and he definitely kisses her at the door.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Their relationship is unorthodox.

Dinner dates happen late at night, while Maka is nibbling at instant noodles and Soul has his nose pressed into her hair, lounging on the couch and watching B-rated horror flicks. Dessert is Maka planting herself on his lap and kissing him until he can't think, not strawberry shortcakes and shared milkshakes. There is a whole lot of touching in their relationship, and most of it is not as sexual as one would think, considering he is an incubus.

He's not quite as weirded out by it as he's probably supposed to be about the lack of sexual touching. None of it seems weird to him. Different, maybe, yes, but that's mostly because it's all new to him, foreign ground, and he's still wobbling on his sea legs. There's nothing weird about the way Maka smiles at him when he tucks his face against her neck and holds her close. There's nothing wrong with how Maka stands on his feet and kisses his mouth, with how she asks for him to dance with her when there's no music playing in just their socks and pajamas.

But everything is right in the way she laughs so hard she cries when he tickles her. He doesn't even hate the bruises on his hips from her knees digging into him or how he hasn't met his cool quota in weeks.

All he knows is he's never felt quite so alive. And yeah, maybe he's got it bad for a nerd who likes to wear her hair in pigtails and continually whoops his ass in arm wrestling contests, but he's happy, and he doesn't have to explain himself to anyone. Not to Wes, not to his incubi elders, and definitely  _not_ to Kim, who is still continually texting him offerings of threesomes.

He scrolls through his iTunes leisurely and drags another song into the playlist aptly titled "Maka." He's safe to keep working on it without fear of getting caught; Maka has class until five on Wednesdays, and he has plenty of time to work his way through a few more songs before he needs to take the brownies out of the oven.

When the fuck did he become so domestic?

He thinks about her smile lighting up her whole face and shrugs it off. Whatever. If questioned about it, he's going to plead the fifth. It's  _not_ uncool to devote his free time to baking his girlfriend treats - it's being polite. She's literally his energy source, and so what if he thinks she deserves sweets and good eats for putting up with him? It's not like he _likes_  being so deceitful and lying by omission, but what other choices does he have? Part of him - a dark part, deep down, that he likes to keep smothered and hidden away from her - worries that she wouldn't want to be with him if she knew the truth.

So he spoils her with treats and flowers and never really owns up to the way her laugh makes him feel like those dumb romance novel heroines she's always reading about. Who is he and what has he done with the surly, starving incubus of yesteryear? He's not sure and he doesn't care; he likes who he is as of late.

And Maka seems to like him, too. Smiling like a fool, he adds another song into her playlist and leans back in her computer chair.

"Whatever is baking smells good," Blair purrs, nestled into Maka's blankets.

"It's not for  _you._ "

"Hmph.  _Rude_."

She can deal. Blair gets the royalty treatment, anyway - Maka buys her little kitty toys and treats all the time and routinely lets her in the bed with them when they're watching Netflix. What more does the damn cat need? A  _throne?_

Her tail thumps against Maka's stuffed Totoro. Scratch that, she already has one. And what a mighty throne it is; no wonder why he's been finding it covered in purple fur lately, it's been Blair's ass cushion.

"Do you work hard and put dinner on the table? No? Alright then."

"Neither do you," she says defensively.

He waves a hand at her.  _Details._  "Didn't say I was gonna eat it."

Blair leaps away and trots out the door. "You'll eat  _later_."

He can neither confirm nor deny in good faith. There's no doubt that he will get his own form of a treat in Maka's gentle face kisses and hugs, but he hardly thinks that's a fair comparison. Maka obliges his touchy-feely tendencies - in fact, she's usually the one to initiate most of their cuddle sessions. He usually feels too awkward to cave-man drag her onto the couch. She, however, doesn't.

His girlfriend is incredibly strong. It's  _so_ hot.

The dopey grin on his face isn't going anywhere anytime soon, not while he's thinking about how easily Maka could carry him around, or the clear, wiry muscles in her lithe arms. Maybe he should accompany her to gym someday, just to see how much she bench presses. Does she lift? Can he watch?

"Smells good," a voice purrs, and Soul just about jumps out of his skin. He does tremble and collapse out of his chair, though, and stares up at Maka, heart thundering in his chest. He gapes at her like a fish and she giggles. "Aw, jeesh, Soul!"

"You're not supposed to be home yet!" he gasps, pointing a shaking finger up at her.

She shrugs apologetically and offers him a hand. "Class got out early. I rushed home because I wanted to see if you had plans, but then I smelled the brownies…"

He squawks indignantly. "That wasn't me."

"So Blair mixed the batter and put the pan in the oven?"

"I'm telling you," he hisses, "that damn cat  _isn't normal_."

Maka grabs his wrist and tugs him to his feet. She reaches to fix his mangled shirt, sorts through his messy hair, and pops a kiss on his chin. Because he's feeling particularly pouty and greedy, he drinks it in and his entire face flushes a pleasant pink, starting at the base where her mouth lays. She giggles again and pokes his cheek.

"She doesn't have opposable thumbs, Soul."

"Shhhh," he whispers. "She's trying to buy your love."

"It's working," she teases back, linking her arms around his hips and pressing herself against his front. He's made aware at once of the subtle curves of her body, the softness of her chest against his. He swallows thickly. "I am wooed."

"... There are peanut butter cups baked inside."

"Oh," she moans, and  _something_  below his belt tingles. "Be still my beating heart."

* * *

"Are you sure you don't need any help in there?"

Maka is teasing him, he  _knows_ that, but his face burns red in the mirror anyway at the implications. "Go away!" he hollers, scowling at the sound of her triumphant giggles. She's won the battle but not the war; see if she'll come home to warm brownies next time,  _hmph_.

He doesn't undress until he's heard the telltale sounds of her scurrying down the hall. Her steps are loud and punctuated by weight she doesn't possess. It's adorable and unnecessary; he notices her from a mile away. Maka doesn't need to make any extra noise to let him know of her presence. Unfortunately, he's always aware of her whereabouts - almost annoyingly so, because undressing when she's right outside the door makes his stomach do an excited little jig and he yanks his shirt off before he can really dwell on the reason why.

Undressing goes quickly after that. He shuffles out of his pants, frees his tail from its confinement and exhales. God, it's good be free, even if just for half an hour behind the safety of her shower curtain. Skinny jeans are cramping, but it's not like he can just let his tail lay around willy-nilly. His horns are already pushing it. It's bad enough Maka probably thinks he just lazes around, constantly in troll cosplay. What would the tail suggest?

Soul rips the shower curtain away and hops in before he can really think on it.

The shower goes about as well as one would expect, considering he was sporting less than chaste thoughts of his roommate only seconds before stripping naked and getting wet.

But the boner is new.

New in the never-had-one-over-an-actual-girl kind of way, because of course he's had boners before and of course he's whacked off. However, he's never been inspired by anyone he's known personally, so his confusion is completely justified, and he gawks down at his very erect penis and wonders how Maka has managed to turn his life upside down in a matter of months. He's rocketing through firsts: first date, first kiss, first bout of sexual attraction, first inappropriate boner.

First shameful masturbation session in his girlfriend's shower, probably coming up shortly.

He hisses through clenched teeth and tries his damndest to ignore his lower anatomy. Sure, he's been mildly aroused from time to time but never because of a girl he's never touched intimately, never unless it was a physical reaction in a rare moment of excitement. Soul's not an incubus without a sex drive, no - but he's (usually) one without sexual attraction.

Until now, apparently. Enter Maka and now he's the hesitant owner of one throbbing erection.  _Congratulations_ , he's the big winner, or… something.  _Huh._

Cautiously gripping his prize, it's made blazingly apparent that his  _little problem,_  ahem, is going to get very messy very quickly, and he feels a groan rumble through his chest before he can silence it. The spray of the shower only does so much to mute it, and he stuffs his fist into his mouth and bites down as he jerks himself slowly.

Holy shit.

Keeping Maka in the dark about him being a sex demon is worth the pinpricks of sharp pain digging into the back of his hand. Soul's not sure he wants her anywhere near his penis, especially if his limp sense of attraction is suddenly kicking into high gear. He doesn't want to revolt her with his gross, teenage-boy-esque bodily reactions to her very existence, but presently he can think of nothing but her bare neck and ash-blonde pigtails grazing over her slim, bare shoulders, or her long pale legs and wondering what would happen if he bit them.

Or maybe her legs over his shoulders, holding him tight. Or around his hips, pinning him down as she takes the lead, arms caging him in as she takes and takes and takes what he thinks he might be okay with giving for once, in an odd twist of events. He's supposed to be the one feeding, but if put in the situation, he thinks he would be more than happy to reverse the roles and give her the big 'o' just for the sake of watching her expression as she comes undone.

Yeah,  _that's_ the stuff; he whines and bites down harder, ignoring the blood that sprouts, and hurries his hand. His hips budge and quake with the motion and he spills on the shower floor embarrassingly soon. Somehow the trajectory of his come intersects with his tail, too.

Breathing heavily, he stares down at the mess he's managed to make while trying to bathe.

Knocking on the bathroom door shakes him from his groggy, post-orgasm induced stupor. He jumps, slips, and has to grapple for the shower curtain to keep himself barely afoot, knees wobbling and feet squeaking nosily. Miraculously, he manages to avoid stomping and sliding around in the wreckage of jizz, knocked-over shampoo bottles, and the bar of soap.

"Soul?" she calls. "Are you okay?"

How loud was he? He slaps a hand to his damp forehead and smoothes his bangs up and out of his eyes. "Uh," he sounds uselessly.

"I wasn't being creepy!" A likely story. "I just- I was passing by and I stopped by the door, and- okay, I was peeping a little," she admits, and he can't stop blushing. "But only a little! I thought I heard something funny going on in there."

Please let her be that naive. Please, whichever god was listening -  _Kid, are you there?_

"Fine," he croaks. "Just… fine. Never felt better."

It's not entirely a lie. Startled by his own body's reactions and excitement, sure, but he's not feeling bad. He licks his dry lips and avoids scrubbing his now-sensitive junk too roughly. He feels great, aside from the bursts of anxiety that threaten to jump from his throat and onto the shower floor, too, but that's from Maka nearly catching him with his hand on his dick and thinking less than pure thoughts of what lies beneath her smart sweater vest, and  _not_ from his greatest solo jam session to date.

He finished in record time. Give him a goddamn gold medal.

"You don't sound it," she says, but there's a playful tone to her voice and he bites back a nervous grin. "Do you need some help?" she asks then, more seriously.

He would actually love some help, oddly enough, but croaks out "No, I'm good," instead to save face and scrubs the jizz out of his poor tail.

* * *

"Oh, I'm so proud of you! I should get you some nice flowers to give her," Marie says cheerfully. Soul snorts and leans against the counter; he can almost see her smile, so wide and proud. It's funny, because she's  _not_ his mother, not at all, but she's always been more of a maternal figure than his hypersexual succubus mother.

He probably feels more comfortable talking about relationships and Maka with Marie because she isn't on his tail to  _get it in_. She never pressured him (lovingly, sure) into taking piano lessons as a last resort to aid his seduction skills. Lo and behold, he hasn't wooed any panties off with his dark melodies. At least he's more dexterous in the end, he supposes.

Thinking about his fingers and Maka makes him blush. Thinking about Maka licking the brownie batter off his thumb makes him sputter.

"Soul?"

"She doesn't need flowers," he huffs, shaking his head. "I don't even know if she's allergic to anything. Besides, the girl doesn't have a green thumb. Pretty sure she could kill a cactus. Her lawn is just sad."

Marie gasps. "Soul Evans, your  _girlfriend_ deserves a nice bouquet. You need to show her how much you love her."

He snorts. "Like how Stein gave you a pot of dead dandelions when he proposed?"

"He  _tried_."

"He gave a nymph a bunch of  _wilted weeds_ ," he laughs, fully enjoying the sound of his pseudo-aunt/mother/whatever figure balking in defense. It's great to not be on the butt end of the joke for once and he's going to milk it for as long as he can. He will never let her live it down, especially considering she did marry him, albeit after clobbering him over the head and demanding he get some water for her 'precious darlings'.

Soul hops to sit on the table, ignores Blair's quirked look and cackles. The cat seems to shrug, trots over and plops herself into his lap. He choses not to question her sudden snuggly nature and instead strokes down her back. She purrs, content, and lays her head against his thigh. If only Maka could see them now, he thinks, amused.

"Oh, whatever!" Marie fumes. "This isn't about my husband, thank you very much. We're talking about how you're going to spoil your new, nice girlfriend with some flowers."

"You don't even know her," he grumbles. Blair looks up. "How do you know what she wants?"

"Women's intuition!" she chirps. "And mostly, I just want to stop by when I deliver them and meet her. I have to make sure she's good enough for you, Soul."

"Marie," he groans. "Don't."

"I knew you when you were in diapers!  _Oh,_ " she squeals, and then she's speaking low, mischievously, and the hair on the back of Soul's neck stands at attention. Oh,  _fuck._  "I'll bring the  _photo album._ "

"I'm not giving you her address."

"Any girl would love to see your itty bitty baby butt! And besiiiides, I'm sure she would love to see your teeny horns."

"She sees them every day," he deadpans.

Marie titters. "But, like - when they first came in! You were so  _proud,_  Soul."

He  _had_  been, sure. Maybe once upon a time, when everything was still new and whimsical and he'd been an early bloomer. And then he hit eighteen, the need to feed began, and the rest is sexless, seduction impaired history.

Soul tugs his beanie farther down and scowls at the way Blair licks her paw, amused. "Whatever," he grunts.

"Soul?" a voice calls from down the hall. He flinches. "Where are you?"

"Is that her?" Marie squeals. "Oh, put me on! I want to talk to her, Soul. You let me talk to her."

"Kitchen," he chimes, aptly ignoring Marie and focusing his attention instead on the snuggly feline nestling her face against his thigh. Let Maka and Marie chat it up? Fat chance. He can't let Maka have that much power. She never needs to see his bath photos, or the picture of him with chocolate all over his face, or him crying because Wes ran over his tail with his new bike.  _Fuck_ no.

" _Soul!_ "

He hangs up cheekily and accepts Maka's forehead kiss as she scurries into the room. There's a crook in her brow, not unlike a mother's unimpressed stare, as she gently shoves his shoulder and scolds him for sitting on the table. From behind her, her  _actual_ mom trails in, looking as imposing and yet kind as ever. She accepts the bags her daughter holds and moves to set down the groceries on the counter as Maka whirls back to stare at him, hands on her hips.

"With your shoes on, nonetheless! We have chairs for a reason, Soul-" she continues, but catches sight of her cat on his lap and considerably softens. It's rare to catch him and the other domesticated entity bonding and at ease with each other (read: Blair not fucking with him).

There's a long, pregnant pause. The table creaks beneath his weight.

"Hello, Soul," her mom says finally.

"Mira," he nods. "Maka?"

"You're petting my cat," Maka blurts. Soul tries not to let the double entendre get to him. "What's the occasion?"

He only hopes he's currently the posterchild of supportive boyfriends bonding with their loved one's cats. Maybe the calendar edition. The kitchen spread. Or -  _okay,_  maybe he's just trying to justify his ass' placement on her table without getting a nut crushed or a face full of one of her dictionaries. He would rather have a kiss, actually. A real kiss, on the lips. Maybe even with tongue this time.

Soul waits until her mom has left to finally release Blair and lay across the table. One elbow slides to rest against the wood as he leans on one side, propping up his chin on his palm. His other hand sits on his hips and he poses, grinning cheesily as she turns and blinks at him. He wiggles his brows in what he thinks is  _probably_  definitely a sexy manner.

"Hey, bab-"

The quivering legs of the table snap. He goes down and  _nobody's_  shouting timber - just Maka, screaming in surprise and Soul wailing as his face meets tile.

* * *

Despite their frequency, none of their makeout sessions have ended in either of the two of them undressed.

In fact, he's scarcely touched a boob. Sure, he's grazed along the side of her breast before, be it on accident or a rare moment of confidence, but he's never outright held one in his hand. His instincts fail him on most occasions, leaving him to grip her waist aimlessly and nibble at her lip until she rakes her hands through his hair and takes the initiative again and leads the way. Part of the problem, he thinks, is that he's unsure what the boundaries are - for both himself and her. The last thing he wants to do is rush her or find himself in a situation where he's uncomfortable and disinterested again.

Which is why he gasps when she slides his hand onto her bare thigh. Her sleep shirt does nothing to conceal her, riding up along her hips because of the way she's planted herself firmly in his lap. Her skin is warm and supple beneath his palm and oh, god, he's thought about these legs a little too often and now it's actually happening, thank you Jesus. It's mind numbingly good and has his mouth drooping mid-kiss, eyebrows vanishing beneath the mess of his bangs.

" _Maka_ -" he squawks.

She hums and kisses her way across his cheek,  _gentle_  in a way that could be mistaken for innocent, if her hand wasn't on top of his and securing his place on her thigh.

Her mouth dips to graze along the curve of his jaw, pressing light kisses over and over until she trails her way back to lightly smooch behind his ear. He finds he's sensitive there and shudders beneath her soft ministrations. His fingers press and dig against her leg, grasping her tighter and forcing breath through his nose as her fingers stroke the back of his palm.

He can feel her smile against his skin, mumbling, "We've seen this movie before," as she trails her way down his neck; it's his true weakness, he finds at once, because the feeling of Maka's lips and tongue and teeth makes him squirm and pant beneath her.

"But-"

"Hmmm?" she hums, slowly, slowly nudging her hips forward.

They might not make it to the undressing part - he's damn sure he could find enough pleasure in dry humping to finish himself off, but he grits his teeth and slides his other hand to sturdy the small of her back just in case. He slows her, not because he's uncomfortable and wants to stop, but because he's afraid she's not getting enough out of it and he'll be damned if he lets this finally happen without giving her what she so dearly deserves, too.

"Mmh," she moans against his throat, and goodbye, peace of mind. "Soul, you're-" she can't finish her thought without gasping, her hips moving gradually and firmly against his lap. It's impossible for her not to be aware of what's going on in his pants and he prays she won't be disappointed with what she finds.

Because his lower anatomy is probably better than the average human penis, but he's not entirely sure of the schematics and details and has never had the chance to find out. If this is his dick's first true rendezvous, he's glad it's with her - but also afraid that he will disappoint. Will his come sting? What does demon jizz do to humans? Will he burn her with his, uh,  _hot seed_?

He mentally pledges to never refer to any of his bodily fluids as anything gross like  _hot seed_  while he has his girfriend giving him glorious hickies ever again.

Her fingers, devious as they are, trickle under the hem of his shirt and ghost over his stomach gradually. She pets the thin trail of hair that leads beneath his belt, and he's so hard that it hurts to be constrained in his skinny jeans but he refuses to unzip and make her feel pressured to do anything. Her hands are beautiful, each finger pale and strong, and he quakes beneath her touch, unusually vocal as he grips her leg and leans his head back against the couch cushions.

Maka kisses his throat and smiles. "Um," she mumbles, and he chances a look down to marvel at the pinkness that colors her cheeks. She's so cute, and just as awkward and unsure as he is, and his heart swells at the notion.

Certain other parts of him swell, too. She's scooted back enough to place one palm over the straining bulge in his skinnies and all hope for deeper thought has been lost. There is only Maka and her hands, Maka and her eyes, Maka and her soft, soft thighs and the desire to nibble and lick and please.

"Can… this go?" she asks gently, tugging on his shirt. There's nothing obvious hiding behind his shirt, but if she wants his pants to go, too, he's going to have some explaining to do. His tail is cramped in the crotch of his jeans and he thinks maybe it's time to come clean with her.

He wiggles as she tugs his shirt over his head. She quietly marvels at his skin, sliding one palm down his abdomen and brushing a thumb over his navel. Her green eyes flicker up and then she's pushing his hat off of his head, both hands trailing through his hair, combing and tugging.

She strokes lightly at his horns and his hips jerk so hard she nearly gets launched off of the couch. Maka gasps and clutches his shoulders.

"Maka, I need to tell you something," he blurts, breathing harshly. She has to know. There's no way he can continue this heavy petting with her without coming clean; she deserves to know the truth, and if she's not okay with it, then fine, he will deal. But Soul refuses to trick her by omission just for the sake of  _feeling something._  It's not right. "I'm not-"

"Soul,  _I know._  You're-"

"-Not a cosplayer!" he confesses, ready for the fallout. "The horns are real."

Her hair has long since fallen out of her pigtails, the straps of her cami crumpled over her slim shoulders and of all things, Maka  _laughs out loud_ ; he gawks and stares at her, confused, as she removes a hand from his hair to cover her mouth. "Soul-" she giggles and then sobers up, because she must be able to tell that he's halfway to dive bombing out of her window and burying himself in the back yard. "Sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but - did you really think I didn't know you're not human? I knew you were either Gene Simmons' long lost son or a demon with that tongue."

Said tongue retracts behind his lips and he holds his mouth tight. A cold sweat drips down the back of his neck. "So," he says, "you- you knew all along?"

"Mhm!"

"And you still made all those Homestuck jokes?"

She smiles mischievously. "You got so rustled. I thought you knew I was just playing around!"

"Maka!"

Her giggles diminish into soft bursts as she pets his hair, smoothing down the tufts and mess she made of it. "Aww," she cooes, and it takes everything he has not to crack and smile as she rubs behind his ear. He scowls passionately, deeply. "You have pointy ears, Soul."

"Hff."

Maka pats his cheek and bites her lip. "I'm sorry," she admits. "I should've made that clear I guess. I figured it out pretty early on. Your brother's an incubus too, right?"

Why had he not counted on Maka's nerd brain to put all the pieces together? Of course she would figure it out. She's sharp as a whip and too curious for her own good. His blood runs cold for a minute. "Wait a minute, did you meet him?"

She furrows her brows. "No? Why would I? How would I?"

"He, ah… wanted to meet you. I told him no."

"Why?"

Is there a nice way to admit that he's selfish and wants to keep her all to himself? At least, he wants to keep her far away from Wes, if only because his brother excels at all things sexual and seductive and Soul is about as sexy as a soggy loaf of bread. The inferiority complex runs deep.

"... He's really good at getting in everyone's pants," he says finally, embarrassedly scrubbing the back of his neck. He has one hand still on her thigh, though, and nothing in the world could pry him from such perfection. "I was worried he might work his magic on you, too, and then you wouldn't want to be with me anymore."

Her expression droops, just for a moment, the corners of her lips curving into a frown before she tightens her mouth and blurts, "What, really?" and he sinks back into the couch in shame. She brushes her hands over his cheeks and cups his face securely. "Soul, I don't do this with just anyone. I really like you."

His face burns beneath her hands and, dammit Evans, get your shit together. He attempts valiantly to align his face into something remotely cool and collected, but fails spectacularly when she kisses his nose and presses her forehead against his.

"I know you don't do this with just anyone, either," she murmurs and he tastes her breath on his lips. It's sweet, electric, and his throat buzzes and practically sings. "You were starving when I found you."

"... The hugs," he realizes belatedly. "The cheek kisses."

Her embarrassed smile is everything. She leans back and he appreciates the look on her face, the way the color of her blush hues and burns across the ridge of her nose and along her fair skin. She's so beautiful when she smiles, when she watches him with those big green eyes. She has a way of making him feel whole, like he's not broken, like he's right where he's supposed to be in the world.

"You were so hungry," she admits, trailing a finger along his collarbone. "It was the least I could do. I was worried you wouldn't have made it without some help."

A sinking coldness sits in his stomach as a new realization dawns upon him; if she's known all along that he lives off of sexual pleasure or  _affection,_  apparently, is she with him just for the sake of nursing him back to health? Does her good will stretch that far? Is he just another stray for her, another lost soul that she's collected and held to her bosom, because she's the type who can't stand to see other people suffer? What, is their relationship just an act of charity?

His expression darkens and she reads it immediately. "Soul, I-"

"Do you care about me?" he urges. Words are not his strong suit but there's a cracking in his chest that makes him sick. "Because if you don't, forget it, I don't want to do this-"

She grabs his hands before he can go far and holds them to her chest. He yelps, burning, trying hard not to focus on the softness of her breasts, as slight as they may be, as she shushes him and shakes her head. "No, no!  _Of course_ I love you, Soul. That's not what I meant! I haven't faked  _anything,_ " she soothes, and he finds himself spreading his fingers, laying a palm against her chest to appreciate the beating of her heart. "I trust you. My  _papa_  sleeps around a lot, and I would never, ever lead anyone on like that, or even-" she flushes prettily and he stifles the urge to follow the path of pink down her neck with his tongue. "... I never planned on kissing you. I was just going to give you some TLC and shuttle you on your way, but then you just started growing on me, and things changed..."

He can relate. That had been his plan as well, give or take, but then the walks and late-night talks and general companionship added up and he was left with a hankering tether to her, a fondness that went deeper than the physical desire Wes had always described so crudely.

Maka presses her hand over his and holds his palm against her heart. Her heart thumps steadily and she smiles serenely.

"So  _no,_ you big nerd," she mumbles, "I  _don't_ think you're a little too involved in your fandom. I know you're a sex demon. And I'd still really like to continue, if that's okay."

He swallows thickly. Her heart races beneath his touch.

"Is that okay?" she asks, looking at him shyly.

Soul licks his lips slowly. "I've never…" he trails off, staring at her mouth, her neck, her bare, pale shoulders in all of their glory. He  _wants_  with a force he's never experienced before. "... Can I?" he mirrors her, just as shyly, quietly, and she smiles softly and nods her head.

He has to move his hands from her to help her out of her tank top. There's no bra for him to wrestle with, and it's just as relieving as it is exciting; she is not overly endowed and he's more than okay with that, because what she does have is plenty enticing. She is perky flesh and a cute boob freckle, nestled close to her nipple, and the desire to kiss it is smoldering. Maka is slight but not entirely delicate, pronounced collarbones and defined abs, and he kind of feels like weeping at her knees and worshipping her.

She shivers and tucks herself against him. "Don't  _stare._ "

How can he not? She's blessed him with so much skin to touch and hopefully kiss (and maybe bite, if he's lucky). There's so much silky skin for him to explore and none of it feels wrong or uncomfortable.

"Sorry," he says anyway, even if he's not entirely. He wants to see it all.

Maka puffs out a breath and she leans back, allowing him to gradually slide his hand up her abdomen. He goes slowly, taking his time to truly take in the beauty of Maka, topless and blushing tenderly. She mumbles quietly to him, little things and words and sounds that he can't make out but inherently understands - she's bashful but eager, nervous but ready, and his hands graze the curve of her waist reverently. Her skin is impossibly soft for someone who uses store-brand soaps and lotions, and he sinks his head down to kiss her shoulder tenderly to stop himself from whining out loud about it.

It's  _not fair,_  he thinks as he kisses along her neck, hesitant to introduce his teeth into the mix, that she's graced with naturally soft and healthy skin; he exfoliates and moisturizes and his skin still isn't this silky.

He barely registers that she's on his lap and moving, because he's grazing a breast and the stars have finally aligned. She's  _so soft_ , a happy handful, and he uses gentle, thoughtful pressure and caresses as he admires her shape. Her voice is warm against his ear as she breathes his name in wonder and Soul can barely believe he's not dreaming. Everything is washed over in a warm haze, a lazy, engulfing heat that encourages him to mumble his affection against the curve of her neck, as he kisses the pit of her throat and finally drags his tongue up and Maka crumbles into a delightful pile of need and desire.

"Soooul," she whines, lighting every part of his lower anatomy ablaze, "you can… you can touch, um…"

He grins lightly against her shoulder. It's reassuring to know she's just as awkward as he is when it comes to getting down and dirty; she can't bring herself to say gross words and he respects that about her, but he still really just wants to know  _where_  he can touch. How far is she willing to go? How far is  _he_?

 _Not all the way,_  he promises himself solemnly. He can't go all the way with her, he won't, for the sake of her spirit, but the longer he stares at the vast amount of skin she's bared for him, the more he feels himself beginning to grow hazy. There's no way to tell what his penis might do to her as a repeat offense - Wes never sleeps with the same person twice, not in the span of two months, at least - and he's not about to put her life in danger just for the sake of getting his dick wet.

But he  _would_  really like to get  _her_ wet. And as her hand takes his and leads him down to the drawstrings of her shorts, he thinks he might get the chance to check.

Nibbling down the valley of her breasts, he takes a moment to nestle and rub his cheek against her chest and appreciate the girl against him. She combs her fingers through his hair and he thinks better of their position and turns to lay her down on the couch. Soul hovers above her, watching her eyes watch him, darker than he's ever seen them, and leans down to trail careful kisses down her. He punctuates every few with a bite along the way, just enough to leave a mark that has her moaning his name.

"You're taking so long," she moans, voice hitching adorably; she's so focused on rushing to the end, but he's just happy to be so close to her. He wants to shower her in affection and let her know just how happy she's made him - and he kind of wants to do it with his mouth. "Take off your paaaants…"

He kisses her hip. "Rather do it another way…?" he mumbles against her belly button, plopping another few smooches there for good measure. Feeling her writhe, watching her stomach muscles move and work - it's incredible, and he's overcome with sensation and stimulation. He plucks at her shorts and sucks in a breath. "Can I-?"

"Yes, please,  _something_!"

Maka is cute when she's antsy. She's even cuter without her dorky, duckling-printed pajama shorts and staring down at his mouth in a frantic state of distraction. He makes sure to lick his lips.

"You sure?" he asks again, just in case. He licks her thigh gradually, slowly, as if to let her get used to the feeling of his (really rather long, actually) tongue against her skin. She doesn't need to know that he's actually doing it because he can't get enough of the taste of her, the sounds she makes when he draws a little too close to her panty line, the softness and texture of her inner thighs.

" _Yes_."

"It's not too rough?"

"You're not a cat, Soul!" she gasps, but she's laughing and tugging at his hair too much for him to confuse her mirth as discomfort.

"Just making sure," he huffs, pouting, even as something in his stomach flutters eagerly. "Not like I've ever done this before…"

"I'll let you know how you do," Maka teases.

Soul fully intends on holding her to it. Gradually - shyly - he tugs her simple panties down her hips and down, down, down her legs, which seem to go on forever, until the slight garment is dangling off one slender ankle and she's kicking it away. His gaze shifts back to her center.  _Pink_ is all he can think; he's not really sure what he was expecting, but it's not like it makes a damn difference anyway. All that matters is she's  _Maka_ , she's real and delightfully eager, and that's what really makes it for him.

The first taste of her is like breathing for the first time.

Except it's not his lungs that are filling with fresh breath and energy, but his very  _being_. He feels it somewhere deep in his chest, maybe in his  _soul,_  as he caresses her thigh tenderly and explores her more thoroughly. Each intake and gasp from her fills him like a balloon, more and more, until he's working his fingers in and groaning himself because it's so good, like nothing he's ever experienced before. Maka trembles and jerks against him, pressing more firmly into his mouth, and he finally works one hand away from her thigh long enough to press against her stomach to hold her still. His teeth are dangerous, demonic and a  _little_  too sharp to be considered mundane, and even though he appreciates and enjoys her enthusiasm, he's afraid she might accidentally cut herself on him.

Pressing his tongue flat against her most sensitive spots and drinking in the way she gasps his name is a religious experience. It doesn't take him long to figure out what she likes and what she doesn't; apparently there  _are_ incubus instincts and they're in full throttle.

Pleasing her is all he wants to do in this life. He's found his purpose - in between her legs, guiding his tongue along her most sensitive, intimate parts and feeling his chest warm, feeling her billow and move like the tide beneath him, against him. Tasting her, salt and sex and life and god,  _the texture._

Maka pulls on his hair and laces her thighs around his head as she presses her shoulder blades against the couch. Her body undulates, abs working, and he flashes a glance up at her and admires the way her body moves just as she freezes. She gasps, eyes wide, and then squeezes his head as she comes.

She might be the one seeing stars, but he's the one who's feeling it.

"... Fuck," he says, muffled against her as she catches her breath. "Maka."

Soul turns his head just enough to press a chaste kiss against the inside of her thigh. She loosens against him and goes lax, crumbling against the couch cushions as he works his way back up her body. He pecks her lips once and grins.

There's a smile on her face and he kind of wants to sing about it. Feeling like he could run a mile is decidedly fantastic and hell yeah, he could get used to this. Maka looks like the queen of the world, beaming at him widely and combing back the hair from his face. For a moment, he wonders if he could kiss her for real, if she'd mind having his mouth on hers, considering where his has been.

"You look so proud of yourself," she laughs, reaching bonelessly to rub his face. Her fingers brush over the scruff along his jaw. "I like it."

"You better like more than just  _that._ "

Her eyes haven't lost their light. She hums and he makes a mental note to add the song to her playlist for a rainy day (or to keep him warm at night).

"All of it," she breathes, and tugs him down to her. "I like all of it."


	6. Chapter 6

He decides very early on that Maka's thighs are his favorite pillows.

Nothing against her breasts, because those are a close second, but her lap is his new home. Absolutely nothing is better than laying his cheek against the sensitive, warm skin of her inner thigh and letting her comb her fingers through his hair. It's a pretty sweet arrangement no matter their clothing situation, but her bare legs are certainly his preference. Now that he knows what it's like to actually  _eat,_   _ahem,_  Soul's not sure he'll ever be able to go back to the days of starvation and elderly hugs.

He mumbles happily and nestles himself into her lap more comfortably. Heightened senses allow him to feel  _everything_ , but he refuses to let his awkward boner ruin this moment of comfort for him. It can wait.

Maka blows out a breath through parted lips and scratches his scalp. He's incredibly cozy, pressed against her supple skin, and Maka doesn't speak up even though she's naked and he's still in his sweats. Sluggishly, he presses a kiss to the crease of her thigh and rumbles against her, entirely pleased with this arrangement.

She gasps and squirms. " _Soul._ "

"Mmhhhh," he groans, mouth drooping as she continues to scratch just under one of his horns.

"Soul," she says again, voice high. "Are you  _purring?_ "

" _No_." Absolutely not. Impossible.

Shit,  _is he?_  Is that something he can do? He's not a damn cat,  _definitely_ not anthropomorphic, but the rumbling deep in his chest vibrates through his throat the more Maka continues to pet him. He glances up at her as she shifts a little, tries not to get too distracted by the tiny shadows beneath her breastsl and blushes in denial thoroughly as she grins widely.

"You are!" she cheers gleefully. He squirms and attempts to wiggle his way out of her gentle stroking but resistance is futile, and he's putty in her hands. "Aw!"

"Sh-shaddup,  _no,_ " he grunts, dipping down to gently bite her thigh. Her grasp on his hair tightens and  _oops, fuck_ , count him thoroughly aroused.

Maka roughing him up lovingly is his weakness, after all. Nothing turns him on faster than her tugging on his hair or dragging her nails down his back. He continually chooses not to further dissect any reasons why he finds it so hot and instead basks in it, groans dumbly when she pulls and tugs and pushes until she's propped up and sitting atop his waist while he sinks into her pillows.

She smiles at him, the warm glow of her affection complimenting sleepy sex eyes and tousled, frizzy hair. Her fingers stroke and rub down his abdomen, petting his stomach and clearly enjoying the way he gasps and sighs beneath her touch. He's hers to love and explore and she knows that, he knows she does, but he still has his worries and tucks his hands against her thighs and holds her in place, just in case.

He's not quite sure what two orgasms in a row will do to her, even if there's no penetration happening. Soul can't pretend that he didn't get something out of eating her out twenty minutes ago.

Her thumbs trace his hipbones. "You know," she says conversationally, as if she can't feel his erection pressing against the cleft of her ass, "you kind of sparkle after we mess around."

End him now. "I  _do not._ "

"You  _do!_ " she insists, poking at his stomach playfully. Maka leans down, brushing her nose against his and murmurs ruthlessly, " _I know what you are._ "

"Delete yourself immediately."

"Say it out loud, Soul."

"No way in hell," he deadpans.

Her mouth fits against his and he forgets, only for a moment, that he's annoyed with her. Their tongues move lazily but lovingly, his hands gently cup her backside, and he's about to allow himself to roll his hips against hers when she mutters, " _vampire_ ," against his lips.

" _No_ ," he hisses, pinching the back of her thigh. "How dare you. I am no such thing."

Maka squeals and bounces atop him. Rest in peace, boner. "You kind of  _are_  a  _sexual_  vampire, you know," she hums, soothing his excess irritation with the type of gentle face kisses that could thaw even the iciest heart. He cannot physically maintain a scowl when she is so sweet and tender, cupping his face in her hands as she dots her lips down his nose and over his cheeks. She finds his lips again eventually and he is easily swayed back into the lull of comforting, mildly arousing liplocking.

It's only the continued vibrations of his phone that draw him out of his hazy stupor. He pauses, one hand on her ass and the other happily cupping a boob, as she bites his lip and pats at his pocket.

"I think you have a text," she whispers.

"Or seven," he groans. "Whatever. Leave it."

Another vibration. He pouts as she wriggles her hand into his pocket and tugs out his phone, but not without taking her sweet time and feeling around. He hisses and squirms while she smiles innocently.

"Aw," she cooes. "I'm your lock screen!"

Fuck, he forgot about that. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and rubs instead of allowing her to watch him blush unobscured. She hums her appreciation and tickles his tummy briefly, grinning mischievously as he jerks and bucks his hips, trying hard to jostle her off of her throne. Maka squeaks and digs her knees into the mattress, thighs tight around his hips, and Soul wisely goes silent. She's butt naked and sitting on him - she could be reading Wes' dirty little secrets via text and he wouldn't care at this point.

Her lower lip puckers and she pouts. "You gave Black*Star your number?"

"Have you ever tried to say no to him before? I like my junk not crushed, thanks."

She rolls her eyes and drops the phone into the depths of her comforter. Gone but not forgotten, Soul thinks, as he presses his hands along her waist and thumbs her prominent hipbones slowly. "What'd he say?"

"Oh, the usual," she sighs. "'Don't take my sister into the bone zone'. He's not creative. Don't worry, he's all bark and no bite."

Quite the contrary; Soul's pretty fucking sure Black*Star is just as much bite as he is (loud,  _loud_ ) bark, but can't bring himself to voice his concerns while Maka is seated on his hips and looking darling, wearing nothing but hazy bedroom eyes. He must have blanched, though, because she leans over again and quells his concerns with her mouth, over and over again.

"Mmm," he groans. " _Mmmmaka_ … you should… get up,  _c'mon,_ " Soul says, patting her butt.

She makes a tiny indignant noise and pouts against his mouth. "I don't want to."

"Not safe for you," he grouses, eyelids fluttering as she bites his lip and trails her hands up and down his abdomen. Maka getting handsy is decidedly dangerous. Reckless behavior on either of their parts could lead to outcomes unknown, ones that could lead to Maka, devoid of her spirit, bright green eyes drained of their spunk. It's not worth it for a little taste of heaven, no no no, but she's so damn convincing and willing to test the waters.

She murmurs his name, breathy and ambitious, and he writhes against her palm, flat against his stomach. Her fingers slip beneath the waistband of his sweats and he swears out loud.

"I just want to see," she says innocently, far too so for someone whose fingers are so close to his dick. "Just a little peek."

"Uuuuughhhh," he whines. God, does he  _want_ , too. But he can't, the risk is too high - but her fingers are so warm and her hands so marvelous, and maybe they could…

She kisses his chin gently and lightly rubs sparse white hairs.

"... Just touch," he whispers shyly. His face burns as she kisses him again securely and travels farther south. Nothing more than touching, he swears to himself. No penetration, no peekaboo, no  _bone zone_. Just Maka touching him below the belt for scientific purposes and to sate her own curiosity.

Her palm leaves a trail of heat in its wake. His pulse flutters excitedly and erratically. He feels a lot like a young girl with her first crush, like maybe he should be kissing posters of Maka goodnight and writing about her in his password journal, but that would involve moving and Soul can't will his arms to become solid again. He's absolutely  _mush,_  putty in her hands, and can't keep himself from sighing breathily as she rubs and feels around, not quite  _there yet_ but close enough to the general area to get his blood burning.

He fully expects her to gasp and mutter something naive and cute, like  _oh!_ , or  _it's so hard, Soul!_ He's completely unprepared when she grasps a hold of something in his pants and  _screams_.

Every guy wants to be good in bed and please his partner. And yeah, sure, maybe make them scream a bit in sexual pleasure or whatever - but he hasn't even done anything yet and she's holding her hand to her chest, wide eyed, staring at him as if he's grown a second head.

He didn't think his penis was that weird. Sure, maybe he's a little on the thicker side, but he's not  _that_ big. Definitely not that long, he doesn't think;  _Wes_  is bigger… though then again, the few times he has seen Wes' junk have been moments when he walked in at the wrong time and caught his big brother balls deep in some chick, so maybe that's not the fairest comparison.

Either way, he can't be that unpleasant for her. Nothing to warrant  _that_  kind of offense. His pride is bruised.

Soul cringes and reaches out to grab her wrists and settle her. "Maka, what-?"

"Soul," she says, very seriously, "why is it furry?"

"What," he splutters.

"Your - your  _thing!_ " she yelps, cupping her hands over her mouth. "It's  _furry!_ "

Maka had her hands in his pants not even a minute ago and she can't bring herself to say penis. It's as adorable as it is funny, but he can't bring himself even to chuckle, because _his penis is not furry_ and that's just a false accusation. And he's pretty sure that he would know if she grabbed his dick. He's hyper sensitive and aware of everything that's going on with mini-Soul right now and there were definitely no fingers grazing his lower anatomy yet.

"It's-" he squints at her. "... Maka, that was my tail."

She chews her lower lip. "... … you have it tucked in the front of your pants?"

"Yeah," he says defensively. "Rather have everyone think I have a big dick than a big ass, I'unno."

"You  _stuff!_ "

"Noooooo, I tuck," he insists, burning brightly. "It's different."

Maka smiles and even as he's embarrassed, he's still so aroused. "It's not."

With a renewed sense of confidence, Maka ventures back into depths unknown, beneath his waistband, humming pleasantly, things like  _I might not be walking funny after all_  and how he  _has a lot of nerve for making so many furry jokes when he's got a tail, wow._  He doesn't even have time to defend himself, because as soon as he opens his mouth, she finds what she's looking for and he loses all sense of language; Soul quickly becomes a puddle of gasps and moans, and writhing hips as he moves against her uncertain rhythm.

She tugs his tail out of her way and continues to stroke him languidly, slowly. She's so curious, meticulous in her searchings, and as happy as he is to be her specimen, if she doesn't back up and let him finish stuff off soon, things are about to get very messy. And he still has no idea what his demon jizz will do to her. Is it potent? Will it sting her fleshy human skin? Is it toxic?

" _Haaaah,_ " he pants, hips thrusting pathetically into her hand.

He thinks he might melt into her Hello Kitty sheets. Maka seems to enjoy working him up and likes to have this sort of control over him and he isn't surprised. Her lips part deliciously as she tightens her grasp around him, tugging just a bit harder, and Soul throws his arm over his eyes and moans out her name.

With his vision blocked, everything is more painful. And by painful, he definitely means wonderful. His sense of touch is heightened and her hands are so strong, her grip cautious but good, mind meltingly wonderful, and he doesn't see her tongue coming but he definitely  _feels_ something hot and wet dipping, licking curiously at the tip.

"Ma _ka,_  n _OH_ -!"

He sits up, eyes wild and hair sweaty, plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck, just in time to witness her lick curiously up his length like one might with a popsicle. She's laying on him, soft, tiny breasts pressed against his thighs and legs kicking in the air behind her girlishly. It's almost cute - almost, but not quite, because she's got her lips pressed against his penis and one hand fondling him gently, green eyes murky with unconcealed thirst.

She flutters her lashes innocently. "... Was it bad?"

_Christ._

"No," he grunts, watching in the way her mouth moves with utmost attention. His mind goes blank for a moment. "... … Uuh, just…"

She tilts her head. "Just?"

"... Dunno if it's a good idea. Y'know, because of," he clears his throat, "...  _what I am._  And all. I don't know..."

Because he really doesn't know how far the drain goes. Wes has flirted and slept with multiple girls - but never the same girl twice in a row, and Soul's been sleeping in Maka's bed with her for a few months now. And while he's focused all of his efforts on getting her off, be it with his mouth or his hand, the intricacies and dangers that come with prolonged contact with his goodies are still unknown.

He worries. For her sake, always. Soul can deal with not feeding for days on end, but can Maka deal with  _having her energy sapped by a penis_ , day after day?

Her eyes glow with adrenaline. She's a damn  _junkie,_  he thinks blearily, and he really wishes she were afraid of something for once because he doesn't have the control over his bodily functions that he thought he did. Unfortunately timed erections were never a problem for him pre-Maka.

"... Oh," she says simply.

He gulps. "Oh?"

"I'll be okay," she assures. "Don't worry about that. But it's your turn, Soul…"

"I already had my turn?" he squeaks, very coolly, of course.

She shakes her head. "Nooo… please, Soul?"

How can he say no to that face? She's pouting, pressing her cheek against his erection and  _fuuuck,_ he is so weak. "... Uh… a'ight."

Maka licks her lips deliberately and Soul wonders how it's fair that she's twice the seductress he is when she doesn't need to do it for a living. Maybe one day he'll find something that he's better than her at - but today is not that day, clearly, because Maka quirks a tiny smile and slips her lips around him and time proceeds to vanish.

He's reduced to sensations. Hot. Wet. Warm. Maka.

 _Maka_.

Somehow his hand has found its way into her hair, gradually, shamefully leading her through the motions. She hums in delight, which doesn't even make sense, because he's the one getting a blowjob here and not her. He wheezes, curling over her and cradling her face as she moves, and god, her tongue. She's not particularly talented or practiced, but she's inquisitive and likes to try everything. The spot just below the tip she discovers very quickly, and Soul's spine rapidly approaches liquid status.

He lasts all of four minutes before he spills into her mouth, gasping breathily.

Her eyes widen and she makes a tiny yelping sound around his shaft. His bones might be pudding but that doesn't mean he gets to lay on her bed uselessly while she has his spunk in her mouth. His former anxieties come back in full force, frenzy in his veins, and exhaustion be damned, Maka's a little more important than sleeping.

"Maka-" he chokes, fretting, as he cups her face in his hands, still panting and wheezing as he struggles to fully come back to Earth after that mind-numbing orgasm. "Maka, does it hurt?" he asks, urgently.

She blinks at him. She looks like a little chipmunk with her lips pressed tight and cheeks puffed, like they're full of -  _uugh, god,_  he can't think about it, he's so gross and perverse, what the hell, but he knows he couldn't have come that much, could he? Just how blatantly pornographic is his existence?

"Here," he ushers, holding his hand beneath her mouth. "Spit it out. Shit, I should've warned you, fuck."

Her brows furrow. Maka shakes her head.  _Bad dog,_  Soul thinks.  _Don't eat the thing._

His tongue feels heavy. "Maka,  _c'mon_ -"

She swallows.

The world tilts on its axle. There is no god. Or is there? He can't tell. All he knows is he's definitely gaping like a fish at her, hand laying limply between them, as she scoots up and sits before him, meeting his eye in that bold, fearless Maka way of hers, all the while looking darling and delightfully mussed.

It looks like there's glitter plastered on her mouth.

Maka licks her lips again and blurts, "It tastes like  _vanilla?_ " and apparently he's way more lewd than he ever thought. Horrified, but curious, he swabs a bit of the glitter off of her lip and tastes it for himself.

Jizz isn't supposed to sparkle or taste sweet.  _What the fuck_.

* * *

"I thought you already knew!" Wes defends himself, though he can't stop from cackling and Soul wants to smack the smug smile off his face. "Soul, I've been doing this since I was eighteen. I thought it was something Mother would've already covered with you - or one of the elders, at that!"

"Yeah, well." He scowls, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "They didn't. Nearly gave me a fucking heart attack when she didn't move, I thought it hurt her or something-"

"Oh, quite the opposite." Wes nods sagely. "We're built for pleasure. You know that. We cater to the whims of our partners. It's not a parasitic relationship, Soul. We give just as much as they give, just in different ways. They share their life spirit, and we share-"

"Our cocks," he deadpans.

Wes beams. "Bingo! And if they want it to taste a little better, well, who are we to stop them? It's natural. Automatic."

Soul rubs his eyes and groans out loud. "What you're trying to say, then, is that I'm a glorified sex toy."

"With feelings," Wes soothes. "A sex toy with  _feelings_."

His existence is a joke. He hangs his head and sighs. "And why does it need to sparkle? Wouldn't that, like… cause infections or some shit? Pretty sure glitter isn't supposed to go there."

His brother laughs heartily and swings an arm around his shoulder. Only Wes would find it appropriate to pull him into a brotherly embrace during a conversation like this. All Soul wants to do is get over with this check in with the elders and get back to Maka to make sure that there aren't any unfortunate after effects to swallowing  _his_  penisbutter. She seemed  _fine_  hours ago when he'd left. Prolonging the trip isn't really in his plans, but it's hard to shove his way out of one of his sibling's bear hugs, so he arranges his expression into bored disinterest as Wes lifts him off his feet amicably.

"Oh, Soul," he sighs dramatically, setting him down and waving a hand. "It's magic."

"Does yours sparkle?"

Wes grins suggestively. "Mine  _glows,_ depending on the person."

"Oh, come on, that's  _sick._ "

He cackles and claps a hand on his little brother's shoulder. "Yours is whatever your little lady wants, Soul. Sounds like she likes sweet things."

Soul looks at him dryly. "Maka? If she did, I don't think she'd be with me."

"You're sweet," he cooes.

"The teeth?" Soul gestures to himself wildly. "The  _eyes?_ "

Wes pulls him into a chummy noogie. Soul shouts and thrashes, desperate to break free, but Wes has always been the stronger one in the family. Soul's skinny knees are bony and good for kicking, but his lanky arms are about as intimidating a drunken fly, floating and buzzing aimlessly until someone comes by to set him free. "Maybe you're right," Wes snickers as Soul howls and begs to be let free, "but maybe she wants it to look nice if you fuck up and get it in her hair."

" _WES_."

* * *

He really only has to visit the underworld once every few months, just often enough to check in and let the higher ups know that he's still kicking around, not quite dead yet. It's a rule that he tends to drag his feet with, mostly because it's embarrassing to be around so many well-endowed and successful incubi and succubi while he continues to fail at life, but this time around it might not be so bad. Sure, he's still embarrassed, but for different reasons; Soul's never been good about being the center of attention, and with his skin no longer an ashy shade and his horns sprouting just enough to be noticeable, all eyes are on him.

Wes strides next to him, tall, proud and beaming. Not once does his brotherly smile fall from his face, and Soul thinks it's a little funny that he's so invested in his little sibling's sex life, but it's endearing all the same. And weird. But their life is super fucking strange as it is, so he doesn't really dwell on it and opts to shove him fondly when he tries to straighten his collar for him instead of cussing him out as usual.

"Now remember," Wes begins, "stand tall, and don't let him intimidate you. You don't have to give him too many details if you don't want to."

"Got it," he mutters. "Really, shut up, Wes. This isn't the first time I've done this."

"Shoulders back! Really, Soul, you should've worn nicer jeans."

His ripped skinnies are fine, thank you very much. Maka likes them, said they make his butt look good - and if he's dressing to impress, it's only going to be for her. In the end, he doesn't really give a damn what Incubi Spirit thinks about his wardrobe. The guy kind of gives him a headache.

Because yeah, his elder is a cool guy and clearly knows a thing or two about seduction, judging by his massive, oversized antlers, but he's a little overzealous when it comes to the finer details of feeding. He likes women a little too much. Keeping one on his lap at all times is definitely overdoing it, Soul thinks as he pushes through the large double doors and watches as a lower-level succubi sucks on the redhead's finger enthusiastically. Especially since he's not even feeding off of this and neither is she - this isn't work, this is pleasure, all the while he sits on his gaudy throne and pushes his fingers through her long blonde hair.

Spirit doesn't even stop at the sound of footsteps. He smiles sensually, using gentle hands to dip her face back to expose the length of her neck for him to kiss.

Though tempted to making a retching sound to catch his attention, he thinks better

of it and clears his throat instead. Spirit looks up, disgruntled, but softens at the sight of just who it is and settles for sliding his hand over the succubi's rather curvy backside, smiling contently.

"Soul," he greets. "It's about time."

Soul flushes. What, can everyone smell it on him or something?

"You look well," Spirit says amicably. "I'm glad. We were all beginning to wonder when you were finally going to pop your cherry."

"Er," he shuffles. "Yeah."

"But this is good! The betting pool can finally be called off. Soul Eater finally lived up to his name," Spirit says, waggling his brows. The blonde perched on his lap giggles lavishly as her bottom is squeezed. Soul looks away, anywhere except for the sight before him. Really, he has better things to do than watch his elder feel up one of his peers - like go home and see Maka. Like go home and see if Maka is up to watch a movie, maybe some Netflix and Chill.

Whether or not the chilling will be actual  _chilling_ , though, is yet to be determined. Soul bites back a grin.

"So," Spirit begins, finally, as his hand reaches back to cup the girl's waist. "Tell me about her. Or him?"

"Her," Soul mumbles. "She's… uh, she's nice."

"More than nice, if I had to guess," Spirit smirks perversely. "You didn't grow those horns for nothing. Was it good?"

Soul nods mutely, shrugging.

"I remember my first time. She was beautiful.  _So_  beautiful. And kinky. She could do this thing with her leg and get it all the way behind her neck while I-"

"Nice," Soul interrupts, feeling entirely uncomfortable and in no part ready to sit through story time with his sex demon boss. There are some things better left to imagination, and this is most definitely one of them. Spirit has never been known to be subtle. Everything he does is laid on thick, and Soul can't imagine sex is any different for him. He can barely handles Wes' retellings of his midnight trysts; Elder Spirit's, however, are definitely another story. "Can I go now? I have things to do."

"Or  _girls_ to do."

He stares at one of the tiles on the floor and focuses on it. "Eh."

"Fine, fine," Spirit agrees with a wave of his hand. "But only if you tell me a little about her. I'm curious to know more about the lady that finally broke you in. This has been a long time coming, I'm sure you know, and it's been the talk of the underworld for a while-"

Great, so everyone and their brother has been talking about his fantastic failures. That's just so great to know, Soul thinks bitingly, and barely resists the urge to slouch into himself and completely check out of the conversation. He doesn't care if it's rude or not, but he did promise Wes he would make it through the meeting without arousing too much disgruntlement from their boss.

Technically, what he's doing is against the rules. He's supposed to be sleeping with multiple partners, not just one girl. Especially when it comes to humans. Cycling through a select few is fine and dandy, but focusing all of his efforts (and draining, realistically) on one person is notoriously dangerous and very much against the incubi/succubi code of conduct. And while Soul has never particularly been a stickler for the rules, he really doesn't want to be caught red handed and forced to give Maka up.

She's special to him. Makes him feel squishy and soft and safe like nobody else has, and he really doesn't want to say it outloud and tarnish what's left of his reputation. His cool is already in barely contained shambles. It doesn't need to be stomped on, too.

"... Blonde," Soul admits quietly. "She's blonde."

"Ah, I love blondes." The barely-clothed succubi seated on his lap gasps, enamored, and presses his hand against her chest. Soul guesses it's supposed to be a sweet gesture, holding his palm close to her heart, but in reality she's just stuffing his hand into her plentiful cleavage. Spirit looks a little too pleased with himself.

Soul's brows dip, irritated. "I, uh. Can tell."

"Nice body?"

"... Yeah," he admits, blushing to his ears, despite his best efforts. "Can I go yet?"

"Big tits?"

" _Fuck_ ," Soul scowls. "None of your goddamn business? Why do you even care?  _You're_  not the one sleeping with her."

"Inquiring minds want to know," Spirit says innocently. Far too innocently, Soul thinks, for someone with a girl pawing at him. "I could settle for a picture."

"No."

"She's practically a celebrity around these parts and she doesn't even have a name. You should be more excited! You don't look like the walking dead for the first time in years, Eater. Chin up. Brag a little."

Soul outright scowls.

Spirit stares at him sternly. When neither of them back down, he rolls his eyes. "Just tell me her name and you can go."

He weighs his options - a name isn't as personal as a picture, but Maka isn't really a fairly common name. Still, it's not like Spirit will check up on him that often - he's clearly much too busy with his own vices (the girl shimmies up his lap and the redhead leers) to really dig that deeply into Soul's personal life. But selling Maka's name to the likes of him just feels wrong. He's a dirty old man and Soul knows without a doubt that Maka would hate him.

His shoulders droop in defeat. "Fine," he exhales. "Maka."

Spirit tenses. "...  _Maka_ …?"

Something is very not right, Soul realizes about ten seconds too late. His boss looks angry, and when he's angry, there's a crook in his brow and a burning in his eyes that is unnervingly familiar. Come to think of it, the entire shape of his face is recognizable, too - his eyes, especially, are reminiscent, and they remind him of shades of green, of long, blonde lashes and the look on Maka's face when she catches him with his feet on the coffee table.

Spirit seems to realize what's going on here just as Soul takes several large, quick steps back from his post. The succubus looks between them, all pretense of sex and mischievousness wiped from her pretty face as Spirit balks, fists clenching as he raises from his oversized seat. His hands are actually shaking, eyes narrowed into much less endearing slits, and dammit all, his nose flares the same way Maka's does when she's angry.

Mother _fucker_.

* * *

" _YOU FUCKED MY DAUGHTER, YOU BASTARD! I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR HORNS OUT!_ "

Soul flies through the double doors and nearly knocks Wes off his feet.

"So it didn't go well?" Wes splutters, as Soul grabs him by his arm and yanks him along. Soul's not a runner, not by a long shot, but his options are run like a chicken shit or get throttled into next week, and Soul's wise enough to know  _Maka's father_  could snap him in two if he really set his mind to it. Anyone related to Maka has the capability of being terrifying.

 _Maka's father!_ What are the odds?

Soul laughs in horror and sprints past Marie, who looks decidedly concerned. "No shit!"

"You had sex with his daughter?" Wes squawks. "Maka is his  _daughter?_ "

"MY SWEET BABY ANGEL! YOU DEFILED MY  _SWEET BABY ANGEL!_ "

"SHE'S NOT  _THAT_  INNOCENT," Soul shouts over his shoulder. Spirit  _roars._  Soul runs faster. "I MEAN - SHE'S AN ADULT, SHE CAN MAKE HER OWN CHOICES!"

"I can't believe you fucked Spirit's daughter," Wes mutters; Soul chances a glance at him to find his brother shaking his head, eyes wide and laughing incredulously. "You've really outdone yourself this time, little bro."

" _Not_ really helping, Wes."

"You really know how to pick them!"

"How was I supposed to know?! She's blonde! And already has a family!"

"She is  _adopted,_  you piece of shit," Spirit snarls, though it sounds like he's no longer hot on their tail; Soul digs his feet into the ground to slow his roll and turns to find Marie has grabbed Spirit's collar and restrained him with one arm. The redhead thrashes and growls, tail whipping against the floor with an unnervingly loud patter of  _slaps_. "I can't raise a baby girl in the underworld. She's too pure for that. But she's still  _my_  baby girl!"

Marie blinks back proud tears. "You're dating  _Maka?_  Aw, Soul!"

"IT'S NOT CUTE. He's going to suck her dry!" Spirit howls. Marie yanks his collar like a leash and he hisses, rubbing the back of his neck.

The whole thing is just embarrassing. And stressful.

What are the odds, really, that the one girl he finds a connection with is probably the only girl that Spirit considers off limits? It's like the universe is actively working against him, like maybe he should just throw in the towel and go back to hugging the elderly and sad platonic hookup attempts with Liz until he finally wastes away. Has everything just been a sick joke? Is he simply not meant to have nice things, not meant to be close to another person without there being serious consequences?

All of the signs were there. Maka's inherent distaste of men who sleep around, Maka hating her father for being gross, Maka not even questioning the appearance of an incubus in her bed - she's totally aware of what's going on. Way, way more so than he's been, apparently. Numbly, he realizes that Maka has known the whole story for most of their friendship. She's known since he mentioned Wes, probably, and made the call to inform his big brother that he'd be spending time at a girl's house until he felt well enough to come home.

His girlfriend is absolutely smarter than he is.

"... Wait," Soul mutters. "So Maka's not human?"

"She's  _half_ human," Spirit grumbles from where he sits, a pitiful pile of grouchy toddler-sex demon on the floor, arms crossed and all. "Don't get any bright ideas."

When Spirit offers no further help (and spits in his general direction) Soul looks to Marie for help. She smiles brightly, a glistening burst of glee and satisfaction practically glowing off of her, and informs him, cheerily, that  _Maka's mother was human!_

"... But she's not  _all_ human," he reiterates. "Right?"

"Mhm!" Marie nods cheekily. "She's just as much human as she is demon, but she  _appears_ human. She doesn't have horns or a tail, but she does have more demonic vitality. Reproducing with human women directly is dangerous, so usually demons don't actively try to impregnate them… but sometimes it happens. Like Maka!"

"Does she feed…?"

Marie giggles. "Worried that she's sleeping with other guys? That's funny, coming from an incubus. Would it be that bad if she did?"

The thought kind of makes him want to gouge his stomach out. She's not just a slab of meat on a table, a warm body for him to sink into and sap energy from; it's not just a sex thing. It's definitely a love thing, too, but admitting that out loud in front of this particular crowd spells out danger and possible broken bones, so he instead answers with a shrug and stuffs his hands as deep into the pockets of his jeans as they can go. Now is definitely the time to rethink the tight, tight skinny jeans.

"Well…"

"Well?"

All eyes are on him. It's as uncomfortable as it is nerve wracking, and he definitely can't meet Maka's father's eye as he mutters, "Well, yeah, we're exclusive."

The cat's out of the bag now. He scans the room. Wes grins from ear to ear, much too proud for someone who is not directly involved in the relationship, while Spirit looks torn between wanting to throttle him and crying - from what, he's unsure.

Maka's not a little girl, not by any means. She's in her 20's, a college student as well as a working girl. It's not like Soul's taking Spirit's baby girl away from him and out of the nest; Maka hasn't been there for years. She's determinedly independent, in ways that keeps Soul up at night, because she often downright refuses to ask for help.

"Should I not do that?" he asks after a beat. "Is that dangerous for her?"

"How often do you intend on  _feeding_  from my little girl?!"

He really wishes he wouldn't put it like that. "I'm not," he growls. "I'm just…  _dating_  her."

" _Sleeping_  with her," Spirit hisses.

Something sits heavy in his chest and he shouldn't go there, he absolutely should not go there but he can't stop himself from sputtering, "What, it's different now that I'm banging your daughter and not some other girl? It's only not okay because she's  _related_  to you?" and watches in horrified amusement as the incubus' face begins to rival the shade of his hair. It's definitely a mistake, and he's in for the smackdown of a lifetime, but for the life of him he can't decide where the courage came from.

But it's an intoxicating sort of power. The word vomit refuses to stop, and before he can think better of it he's stalking forward and standing his ground, thinking of nothing but how disturbed Maka gets whenever she talks about her Papa, how highly she values monogamy and trust, the way she smiles at him whenever he locks his hand around hers and mutters that  _she's the one_. Suddenly her instantaneous dislike and disinterest in Wes is simple and explained; her dad's been groping anything with tits for  _years_.

It's not fair to set up one's daughter with trust issues before she even has the chance to test the waters herself. Come to think of it, it's a miracle he'd ever gotten a chance with her, considering what he is, too. He's an incubus, just like her dad. He feeds off of sexual energy.

But he's also not her father. Soul can't fathom sitting around like a goddamn king with women crawling all over him. The discomfort sits in his bones at the very thought of it - because in the end, all he really needs is Maka and her shitty couch, Maka and the way she leaves him breathless and tingly after every kiss.

"You were so  _proud_  of me before," Soul growls, balking, fists clenching at his side. "What's wrong, old man? I'm not going to parade around with her on my lap like some kind of _trophy_."

Maka's a terrible influence on him. He bites his tongue, tastes blood and shrinks back as Wes stuffs his fist into his mouth to keep himself from howling with laughter. It's certainly easier to look at Marie's proud nodding than it is to face his superior, whose disposition is no longer simply anger but downright bloodthirsty fury. His eyes are narrowed into demonic slits, glowing golden, and Soul finally has the brains to take a precautionary step back and reassess his life choices up to this point.

"Well, little bro," Wes snickers, clapping a hand onto his shoulder as Spirit thrashes in Marie's grip, "you never were very good at Meet Cute."


	7. Chapter 7

He's practically dating a goddamn  _demon princess_.

What the  _fuck_.

In the strangest turn of events yet, Soul finds himself seated across from one Spirit  _Albarn_ , incubus elder and professional of wooing the panties off of unsuspecting, innocent humans and kinky demons alike. He sits there while awkwardly stirring a straw around a cup of soda as his cute, pigtailed girlfriend discusses the details of their sex life.

With her  _father._ He's dating his superior's daughter. She doesn't have horns or a tail, but now that she's here in the underworld with him, he can definitely see how the seemingly unnatural glow of her bright green eyes isn't human. She certainly  _looks_  the part, sitting tall in a maddeningly appealing black dress, neck and shoulders bare and creamy, the hint of a bruise the shape of his teeth adorning the delicate swoop of her throat.

Slurping his soda isn't loud enough to drown out Spirit's little pathetic snuffles. Soul focuses on anything but the hickey Maka's elected not to conceal and curses himself for not having better tact and placement of his love bites, and why, why,  _why_ did he decide to leave a mark anywhere so obvious and out in the open? He should've stuck just to nibbling at her thighs. Sure, Maka has an affinity for short ( _short_ ) skirts, but at least coercing her into wearing leggings or pants is easier than getting her to sit still long enough to work a little cosmetic magic on the purpling aftermath of his mouth.

Maka's got her hand on his lap and proceeds to squeeze his knee supportively. It does nothing but fuel his shame boner. Sporting a hard on with her father - and  _his boss,_  fuck it all - seated with them is not in his best interest, but he's not smart enough to squirm out of her grasp, even if it's for the greater good of his family jewels.

"No sex," Spirit growls, driving the steak knife threateningly into a chicken breast. Soul gulps. "It's not healthy for you, and the little bastard  _knows that_ -"

"I'm  _half demon,_  Papa," she interrupts. "And I think I can make my own decisions on who I chose to sleep with. I'm not thirteen anymore. You should trust my judgement."

Maka squeezes his knee again. Soul sucks his soda down faster and kind of feels like melting beneath Spirit's death glare. If looks could kill, he'd be a carcass on the side of the road by now.

"Men are after  _one thing_ and  _one thing only_ , baby angel-"

"- Oh, you mean like you are?" she accuses, and  _oh,_  he should definitely not be turned on by the authority in her voice. Misplaced erections are abundant in him, apparently, and he stares at Maka's hands as she stabs into her pile of spaghetti and attempts to will away the party in his pants. "I'm the only girl Soul's ever slept with, Papa. Should we go down your list of conquests, or can you even remember them all?"

 _Brutal_. Spirit shrivels back.

But Maka's not done. "I bet you don't even know all of their names." A sniff, and then: "I bet you don't even remember  _Mama's_  name."

The waterworks are over, but her dad's blue eyes seem mistier than they did moments ago, when he was uselessly bawling over his  _angel sweetness_ and her loss of  _innocence_. Whatever line Maka has just crossed, it's still fresh for him - for the both of them, apparently, because even as Maka slides her hand over his thigh and grips tightly, she can't hide the tremble in her wrist, the tightness of her jaw. Obviously, Mira isn't Maka's birth mother, and Sid certainly isn't her birth father - but where is Maka's human mom?

And why does Spirit look like he wants to cry? It's unusual for incubi to fall for their human lovers, sure, but not unheard of - and even so, if he was so crazy about this girl that having a child with her seemed like a good thing to do, shouldn't he still be in contact with her? Shouldn't she still be in contact with her daughter?

Spirit leans forward in his seat, expression unusually solemn. "Of course I remember your mother's name, Maka. I loved her. Just like I love you, princess. I just want you to be happy and safe. I don't want you to make your old papa's mistakes."

She chews her lip. "...  _Whatever._  I have a better sense of judgement than you do. I  _am_ healthy and safe. Soul takes great care of me and my needs."

All eyes are on him. Soul wavers and stares passionately at his empty plate. "Uh?"

Maka's hand is warm and secure over his, her palm cupping over the back of his hand as her fingers slip into the places between his. They lace together like pieces of a puzzle, and there's never been a more secure feeling than fitting himself against her, soaking in her fearless warmth and determination and letting it fuel him. He chances a look at her and she smiles brilliantly, green eyes still suspiciously murky with whatever just went down. And because it's so easy to get lost in her and follow her lead, he smiles back, nervous but sure, a smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth and flashes a glimpse of his razor-sharp teeth - a sight that has never scared her, never once made her want to back down.

She glances back at her father, pigtails whipping and slapping Soul in the cheek. "For your information, we  _haven't_ slept together yet. You're so quick to point the finger and blame him, but he's the reason why we haven't done anything more than mess around. He didn't want to hurt me. He thought I was just a human girl and didn't want to take too much in case we couldn't ever reverse it.  _I_  wanted to go all the way, but he always said no. For my sake."

Spirit sets his sights on him, jaw locked. Soul manages to maintain eye contact. "Hm."

"But I really like him, Papa. I  _like_ his penis," she blurts tactlessly, and Soul splutters and burns bright. " _You're_ not allowed to cut it off."

It's a good thing they have a prior engagement. It's probably the only excuse that could get him out of Spirit's wrath. He mashes his teeth together and grinds his jaw menacingly as he watches them out the entire way, and the bounce in Maka's step doesn't make any of it less terrifying. Soul Evans is a dead man walking.

* * *

The banner and cake both read, " _ **CONGRATS ON THE SEX**_ ".

That alone would be embarrassing enough. Just the fact that he walked in, hand in hand with Maka, to a party with a  _CONGRATS ON THE SEX_  banner is enough to make him want to throttle his older brother and never return to the Shag Pad (™). But Wes never half asses anything. It's all or nothing with him, and if he's going to go out of his way to throw him a Broken Seal Bash, he might as well invite every supernatural they know.

And so, Soul walks in, holding hands with his sweet, tactless girlfriend, as a nearly-naked Kim Diehl pops out of a giant cake and Liz's sister, Patty, enthusiastically blasts an air horn.

"Well, time to go," he deadpans, already tugging on her arm, halfway through making his way back out the door and swearing his brother to damnation and back. "That was fun. Let's never do it again."

"Soul," she chastises, "we can't just leave! Your brother went through all the effort of planning this party for you!"

He eyes Kim's struggle to crawl out of the pile of frosting and trampled cake. "Yeah, uh, no. I'm done. I've hit my quota of unreasonable situations for the day. I'm tapping out."

" _Soul!_ "

"You said all we had to do was make an appearance," he stage-whispers at her aggressively. She pinches her mouth into a pout and releases him to prop both hands onto her hips. "And we did. So  _let's go._ "

Honestly, he's not sure which is worse - lunch date with Maka's father or Wes' misguided - but certainly well intended - party. Sure, lunch hadn't entailed a witch in a string bikini busting out of a strawberry-flavored cake, but he also feared for his life while Spirit had a steak knife in his hands. On the other hand, now he has to watch poor Jackie try to help her girlfriend out of her frosting-induced hell and survive Wes' oncoming bear hug.

The hug is inevitable. Goodbye, ribs. Goodbye, hope of ever leaving, because once Wes has spotted them, there's no way he's talking himself out of this one any time soon. He reiterates his former assumption - he, Soul Evans, is a dead man walking, and the estimated time of death was about five minutes ago when he actually, willingly walked into Hell.

"Oh!" Wes says cheerily, after crushing Soul's bones in a tight squeeze and setting his hands down on Maka's slim shoulders. "You are just  _adorable._  I have heard so much about you!"

Maka burns a darling pink and smiles lightly. His stomach flip-flops anxiously. "You have?"

"Of course!" He winks conspiratorially. "And why wouldn't he? You are lovely. My little brother has wonderful taste. I have to tell you, though, your father is something else. I really thought he was going to skin Soul alive."

"Papa tends to… overreact."

"Well, as long as you're aware," Wes beams. Something in the pit of Soul's throat squirms and flares uncomfortably. Years of living in his brother's perfect, sensational shadow has brewed somewhat of a complex within him, and watching him interact with Maka,  _his Maka,_  brings out something ugly and jealous that he's not particularly proud of. Soul clenches his hands tight, fingernails digging into his palm, as he watches his big brother kiss her hand deliberately, very much a gentleman.

Maka's brows raise and disappear beneath dusty blonde bangs.

She's still wearing the same get up she wore for lunch, claiming that it was fine because it made her look classy, and while that's still true, it's hard to stomach watching Wes eye her marked throat. His brother turns to him and waggles his brows, very much not acting like the upstanding fellow their parents raised him to be, before turning back to Maka and ironing out his expression into something a little less suggestive.

"Soul is the man of the hour, but  _you_  are the guest of honor," Wes reassures, then taps the back of her palm for good measure. "So let me be the first to thank you for all you've done for my brother. Without you, he might still be living off of the hugs of 80 year old women and crying into his pillow every night because he doesn't know how to stick it in."

" _Wes!_ " Soul hisses.

Maka doesn't laugh, but she does clearly repress the urge to giggle at her boyfriend's misfortune. "I didn't do  _that_ much," she reassures. "We haven't actually-"

"I'M HUNGRY," Soul interrupts, grabbing her wrist and giving a hefty tug. "Let's go get some snacks before Kim decides to bathe herself in the rest of the food and we don't get any."

"What, you don't want to eat it off of her?"

He glares at Maka. "Don't even joke about that within hearing distance. She'd be down for it."

Wes can't know that he hasn't actually gone all the way with her. Actually, Wes can't know  _any_  of the dirty details of his relationship with Maka. He doesn't  _need_  to know the intricacies of his tongue along her most private parts and his penis in her mouth, or how the way she keeps smiling at him and squeezing his hand kind of makes him want to Hulk through a wall and carry her back to her bed now that he knows his dick won't be the death of her. She'll be fine if they do decide to introduce penetration in the bedroom, and he's starting to feel up to the challenge.

Maybe, anyway, if he can figure out how to do it. Sure, he's seen porn, he knows how it works - insert body part a into body part b, thrust,  _profit_  - but has a sneaking suspicion that in the moment, he'll find a way to fuck it up. Especially since every other attempt he's made at doing the horizontal tango has been hilariously disastrous.

Like with everything else, though, Soul's pretty sure Maka will end up taking the lead. And he's quite alright with that.

Maka furrows her brows and glances over her shoulder at the pink haired abomination. "What? Really?"

"Yes," he sighs. "I take it you don't know her, then?"

She shakes her head and turns to face him. "No…? I didn't spend that much time in the underworld, Soul. Papa didn't like bringing me around once I hit puberty."

"But you know Marie?"

Her smile is deafening. "Yes! Of course I know Marie, her husband is my godfather. She's the best thing that's ever happened to Dr. Stein, if you ask me. Before her, he used to live off of just meat."

Soul snorts. "Sounds just like him."

"He has a taste for red meat, admittedly, but he's really good about not ripping into people anymore. He's come a long way," she says sincerely, circling the snack table and handing him a plate. "You know them too?"

"Duh. He's your father's best friend. And your dad's kinda my superior," he says dryly.

Maka frowns. "... What did he teach you?"

Soul laughs humorlessly. He grabs a pickle and slaps it onto her plate, grinning at her gasp and wincing as she (lightly) slugs him in the arm. "How to treat a lady, of course."

"Shut up! He did  _not_ ," she hisses, before softening and wiping the corner of his mouth with her thumb. He freezes, stops chomping on a mouthful of Cheetos and stares at her. She wipes her hands with a napkin and balls it up, misses the trashcan by a mile. "You're twice the lady pleaser that he is. Scout's honor."

"You were a girl scout?"

"I did it for the thin mints. No regrets."

She pinches his butt as he bends over to grab the discarded napkin. He shouts, jolts and smacks his head on the edge of the table, alternating between rubbing his ass and his head, all but gawking at her. Maka apologizes at once, leaning over and pressing her hand against his head gingerly, but never once shows any remorse for  _grabbing his ass_ in public.

Her special brand of loving objectification makes him blush. If it were anyone else, he would probably make a fuss and lock himself in the bathroom for a few hours to try and regain his carefully calculated cool, but she seems so sincere and affectionate while making not-so-subtle passes at him that he can't bring himself to be anything but weirdly flattered and embarrassed. He's never really felt sexy before, despite being an incubus, but when Maka slides her hands into his back pockets while they hug or whispers playfully in his ear it's hard  _not_  to feel desirable.

She winks mischievously and sips her Kool-Aid. It stains her lips Rock-A-Dile Red.

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

He ends up in the bathroom anyway.

From outside the door, he can still hear the party in full swing. Wes tells a story, Maka laughs politely, Jackie tries (and fails, presumably) to help Kim wash her hair in the kitchen sink. As far as manners go, he definitely should be out there and enjoying his party, but the celebration is inappropriate and not quite accurate anyway and he's all tapped out socially. Really, all he wants to do now is go home with Maka and break in his newest playlist. If the looks she's been sending him all night are any evidence, she's game.

He doesn't need to look at his reflection to know that he's blushing. For someone who was born and raised to do the dirty deed, he's laughably terrible at keeping the heat from his face.

"... D… do you like that?" he practically whispers to the mirror. "Take it.  _Uh._ You dirty… dirty… … girl?"

While he's a stranger to the actual physical act of penetration, he's no stranger to the art to it. He's walked in on Wes enough times to know that it's not entirely a quiet endeavor. There's slapping of skin and groaning and talking, maybe, and just leaning over her and groaning while he shoves his dick inside of her probably wouldn't be very seductive of him. He's probably supposed to make her want it more, or whatever, and turn her on with sexy words and dirty talk - and while he's gifted with a voice that resides in the deeper registers, he's also just about the worst at talking  _ever_.

Which is why he needs practice. Which is why, instead of pep talking himself in the mirror like any other macho cool guy, he's quietly muttering dirty phrases and hoping one of them doesn't suck major monkey balls.

"Fuck me," he growls. "Right now. I'll… screw you senseless. With the moist, demanding chasm of my mouth.  _Babe._  Baby."

Soul elects to pretend that his voice didn't just crack. Right. He can do this. He can't let her down. What if Maka likes dirty talk in the bedroom? What if he opens his big mouth and turns her off with his weak game?

"And my  _rock hard coCK-?_ "

Wes Evans stares at him through the reflection. Soul gasps, splutters, trips and attempts to escort himself out the nearest window and accept death's sweet embrace, but his brother is faster and catches the collar of his jacket before he has the chance to make a break for it. He's squirming out of his sleeves and preparing for a swan dive when Wes finally says something, clearly biting back a laugh as he asks " _What_ are you doing?".

The open window has never looked more appealing. "... Nothing," Soul insists.

Wes doesn't buy it for a second. "I could help you, if you want."

" _Pass._ "

"Ask her if she likes it. And don't bother with the pet names if you don't normally use them, it'll just be weird."

"Wes, I said pass!"

Soul's head gets tugged back inside and he scowls deeply as Wes zips his leather jacket back up, brotherly smile back in place. He smoothes over his shoulders and straightens his collar, smiles contently, and then ruins the nice moment by advising further, telling Soul that he should consider telling Maka to  _just use him as a toy to suit her needs._

As if he needs  _that_ mental image. He smacks Wes's arm and storms toward the door, absolutely  _not_ imagining what it would be like to have Maka ride him and use him to get herself off. "Fuck off!"

"I'm just trying to be helpful! I've been doing this longer than you have, little bro," he grins lewdly. "Won't you stay for a little longer? That sword I mentioned is here, and I'd like to introduce you two-"

" _GOODBYE,_ Wes."

* * *

"... Hello?"

Soul grunts and presses his face into her chest.

She clicks her tongue and runs her fingers through his hair. The great thing about being with someone, he finds, is knowing them so personally and, in return, also having the benefit of them knowing  _him,_  too. She doesn't ask why he's decided that her lap is the best seat in the house, or why he's taken to tucking his head against her moodily, just puts her hands to work and gently scrubs at his scalp, combing his hair with calloused, strong fingers. He feels her mouth press against his forehead for a brief moment, the barest of kisses before she's smoothing his bangs from his face and murmuring, gently, "Do you want to leave?"

She's the greatest thing that's ever happened to him.

"Nnngh," he grunts again.

"Want to go home?"

"Mmm."

"Have you said goodbye to your brother yet?"

"Nnnn…"

"Soul, he threw you a party," she sighs. "You have to at least tell him you're leaving. A thank you wouldn't hurt either, you know."

But that would involve getting up again and braving the masses. Somewhere in the crowd, Wes is probably retelling his magical journey of stuffing the hilt of a sword up his ass, and while he's quite content in knowing that Maka hadn't fallen to his big brother's charms, part of him still wants her to respect Wes enough to not run in the opposite direction. Not that he suspects Maka will kinkshame him or anything, but still - it's weird, even for a girl who probably grew up plugging her ears and covering her eyes while her incubus daddy drifted from gentleman's club to gentleman's club.

Even for someone who is pretty thoroughly desensitized to Wes' antics and  _adventures,_  it's pretty fucking weird. And questionably unsanitary.

Did  _he_  use bacon lube? The odds of Wes having to Google for assistance on anything involving the bedroom is laughable at best - he thinks not. Maybe regular lube. The sword is probably meaty enough as it is.

"... You're laughing?" Maka blinks at him, craning her head about to get a better look at him.

"Try not to question it," Wes quips, trotting over and ruffling his brother's hair amicably. Soul scowls and untangles one arm from around Maka just long enough to slap the hand away. "He gets stuck in his own head sometimes."

She laughs politely. "He's probably just tired. He could use a nap."

 

 

"I'm right here, you know," he growls. Somehow, he's gone from moody little brother and anxious boyfriend to  _Wes and Maka's troublesome child,_  and that's about fifty shades of _gross_  to think about. He peeks an eye open and glares at the two of them. "I can hear everything you say."

"Ah! He speaks!"

"Choke on a dick, Wes."

"Done and done. Your threats need more work."

Maka's mouth pinches into a frown. "What-"

"He fucked your brother," Soul blurts. Maka's eyebrows leave their current plane of existence and ascend to the heavens. "Well, he started to, anyway. That's why Black*Star tried to beat the shit out of me. He thought I was him!"

"I did not have sexual relations with that man," Wes swears, holding up a hand in solemn remembrance. He's seen things, surely, that no person, demon or otherwise, should ever have to witness. "No penetration, anyway."

"Penetration isn't the penultimate sexual act, though?" Maka blinks, glancing at Soul momentarily as he coils himself further around her. His tail links lazily around her leg, possessively, and he can't help himself from pressing his face into her chest again and breathing her in. He doesn't even care about Wes' bemused snort or the confused look Maka keeps giving him. "I mean," she continues, rubbing the back of his neck, "sex is still sex no matter what, right? A penis is still a penis. You still… um, you now. Felt something."

Wes shakes his head. "I felt  _something_ , yes. At the back of my throat."

"You're still the one who fucked Black*Star," Soul accuses. There's no way he's ever going to let him live it down. Wes has a lifetime of ammunition, years of embarrassment and the inability to be even remotely demonic as an arsenal, and all Soul has to fight back is one terrible blowjob. He'll be damned if he lets the opportunity go to waste.

Especially if it's a chance to embarrass him in front of his fling's  _sister._

"A mistake, I assure you. One that will never happen again. Especially now that you're dating his sister, hm? I'd rather not make things questionably incestual."

"He's adopted," Maka supplies helpfully. Soul moans.  _Fuck it all._  "We're not blood related."

" _Please_  don't give him an excuse to try again. Black*Star will hit me with the bat."

* * *

He only makes it three steps through the door before Maka pounces. His back hits the back of the door as Maka shoves him back. Before he has a chance to greet the cat or take off his shoes, Maka's got her mouth on his and one leg slung around his hip, pressing herself insistently against him. Faintly, he takes notice of Blair, her collar jingling noisily as she escorts herself out the window and into the back yard just as Maka gets her hands tangled in his hair, tugging his face down to her level to better attempt to swallow him whole.

"Wh-" he yelps, words failing him as she bites his lip and presses her hips against his. It's hard to think, never mind speak, while Maka attempts to lick her way into his mouth. She's messy and inexperienced, but what she lacks in talent she makes up for with enthusiasm, and if the way she's trying to grind their hips together is any evidence, she's going for gold tonight.

He grabs at her waist to steady her as she continues to attempt to mash their hips into oblivion. Her breath fogs up his thoughts, little puffs and moans and  _Soul, Soul,_ _ **Soul**_  as she manages to slide a hand down and detangle his belt in one fell swoop. Devious, talented little fingers unzip him and make their way down his pants as he pants and jerks into her hand, unable to stop himself from tossing his head back. It thumps against the door and Maka  _sighs,_  pressing little kisses against the corner of his mouth as she works him eagerly, with the same diligence that he's begun to associate with her and the bedroom. It's absurd how much he likes the little callouses on her hands, how the dull ache in the back of his head from the door doesn't bother him, how he still has his jacket and shoes on even though Maka's hand is wrapped around his shaft.

"Nnh, wait,  _wait,_ " he practically begs. His voice comes harsh, hoarse and worn from her ministrations. " _Maka._ "

"You're hard," she comments innocently. Christ, he can feel the heat all the way up to tips of his ears. This woman has such a pull over him, between her little comments that only serve to make him throb harder and the way she looks at him, so, so heated, like he's the only man in the world. "You were earlier, too. At lunch."

"You had your hand on my knee."

"It wasn't intentional," she mumbles. "And you've been so good all day, even though I haven't been completely honest with you…"

"... You're not, like, an  _angel_ too, are you? Is there anything else I should be aware of?"

Maka smiles against his cheek and giggles. "Do you see any wings?"

"No," he mumbles, finally willing one of his arms to take her hand out of his pants before he makes a mess of everything. Much too soon, and there are things he wants to do and he kind of needs his load  _not_  to be blown yet to do any of it. "But I also don't see the horns."

She exhales and lowers her leg, pushing up to her toes to press her forehead against his. "... I take after my Mama," she admits.

If it wasn't a mood kill, he'd press deeper - where is her mother? Who is her mother? - but he's still uncomfortably aroused and he can practically feel the damp, burning heat throbbing off of her. It makes him hungry, makes his mouth water, and licks his lips deliberately. She pinks, the color staining her pale cheeks and along the ridge of her cute button nose as his fingers link with hers.

He kisses the back of her palm, a move he's seen Wes do a thousand times but never truly understood, but standing there and watching the green in Maka's eyes practically glow speaks to him in ways nothing else ever has.

Because he doesn't want a frantic fuck. Not right now, anyways. Maybe he's sentimental, or sappy, or uncool, shit, whatever, but he wants the first time to be special. And not because it's her virginity he's taking (though that's still a thought that makes him burn in a way it probably shouldn't,  _gross_ ) but because it's  _their_ first time, and he wants to be connected with her in a way he's never been with anyone else. He wants to sink into her and hold her close, feel her nails pull at his back, feel her body warm and alive against his, heart beating rapidly, as he shares all of the mismashed, crazy things he's felt for her in the past few months.

She's  _special_ to him.

Maka breathes in and bites her lip. He's drawn to it like a moth to the flame.

"... Bed?" he suggests, voice tight. If they don't get in the bedroom soon, he's afraid he's going to melt into the floorboards and she deserves better than janitorial duty.

She nods, squeezing his hand, and leads him down the hall. It's not the first time they've gone to bed together, not by a long shot, but now that he knows that, should he chose to indulge a bit, Maka's life won't be in danger, everything is a lot less scary. There's still the fear that he'll disappoint, that once it comes down to it Maka will decide that she doesn't really love him as much as she thought, but it's the same anxiety that he's felt as a boy about everything, and voicing it and giving it purchase over his actions is something he's not willing to do for once. He's his own person. He's not any of his fears, any of his failures - he's Soul, and he's with  _Maka,_  and he'll be damned if anything gets in the way of pleasuring her.

It's about her, after all. It's always been about her, about being good to her.  _For_ her.

"... Wait," he whispers against her jaw, once she's got his leather jacket in a pile on the floor and he's slipped all the barretts from her hair. "I have a playlist-"

"Sap," she murmurs fondly, eyes bright. She glows, incandescent, in the bleak darkness of her room, nodding quietly. "Okay."

 _Fuck,_  he loves her. He kisses her nose delicately and slips away to fiddle with his iPod, connecting it to her speakers (a gift from him, of course) and quickly selecting the playlist titled " _Maka, pt 2_ " and hitting play. By the time he's turned around, her dress is pooled around her and she's wearing nothing but simple, black cotton panties and a nervous little smile.

Even in the lowlight, he can tell she's embarrassed. It must be because she's jumped the gun - or because she wasn't wearing a bra? But he's not complaining; he could sit and stare at her naked form all day, if she let him. She's beautiful, high, slight breasts and slim waist sloping into  _hips_ and  _legs_  and god, do they ever end? Part of him wants to fall to his knees and worship the sight he's been allowed, to tuck his arms around her knees and kiss each silky, warm thigh in reverence. And maybe he should, because there's no rule saying he  _can't_  get her off first.

He's definitely wearing  _way_ too much. Maka kicks the dress away from her and he trips over himself trying to get his  _goddamn_ shoes off.

She laughs anxiously. Her whole self is ablaze, blushing from the tips of her ears down to her chest, as she asks, "Do you need some help?" and before he's even done nodding, she's shuffling over to him and pulling his shirt over his head.

The fabric gets stuck on his horns briefly. He puffs out his chest and grins, absurdly proud, and Maka does nothing more than shake her head and kiss his throat. Together, they stumble back, as he's stumbling out of his skinny jeans and she's stretching out on her bed like a cat. Once he's down to just his boxers, she's sitting and reaching out to him and he falls right into her trap, happily letting her tug him down onto the mattress. The feeling of skin on skin is still a euphoric sort of right, one that he's barely capable of keeping it together over; she's warm and soft and alive, and she breathes and laughs and smiles against his mouth as her hands grip at his back, devious fingers moving back to tangle around his swaying tail.

He yelps and jolts. Maka rubs her thumb along the base of his spine, where heated skin becomes sensitive fuzz. Of all the places to have a hot spot,  _there?_ Soul doesn't even have time to really consider it, because Maka's hands slide farther down until she's grasping his ass in her hands and tugging him against her, allowing a contented little sigh as she works him against her thigh.

Her hips do an enticing little roll as she moves down and  _oh,_  her heat is exhilarating against his arousal. She's warm and soft, so soft, and gasps so endearingly when his mouth goes slack against her shoulder, teeth sharp on her skin.

"How do you feel?" he breathes against her neck, grinding slowly, hips working and moving with the languid rhythm of the jazz.

Her voice cracks, and Soul stares in awe at her closed eyes and parted lips, the way her blonde lashes flutter and brows twitch. "... Mmh, good.  _Good_."

"Not lightheaded?"

"Soooul,  _more,_ " she whines, grasping him tighter, pulling harder. "I'm fine, I  _promise._ "

Maka opens her eyes and he drowns in green, fearless fire, and his hand slips from her waist to slide into her panties. He's torn between watching the way his knuckles move beneath the sleek, thin fabric of her undies and Maka's little lip bites as he sinks a finger into her heat and works her. This is still safe ground, things he's practiced with her - he knows, both from the experience and the way she whimpers his name, when it's time to add another finger, when to caress around her clit with a firm thumb. Soul knows what she likes by now, little circles and the curl of his long, pianist fingers. For once, he's actually glad his parents forced the instrument on him, if only for his ability to multitask with his hands.

She moves like the tide, hips rolling and back arching in such perfect harmony with the lazy, sleepy beats of the song. The piano has nothing on her; she's full of life and he can play her just as well, eliciting crooning sighs and gasps of breath, and she's much warmer than any set of ivories. Playing the piano doesn't make his mouth water the way Maka does.  _Nothing_  makes his mouth water quite like Maka does.

Maka breathes life and energy. Maka sobs his name and pleads for him to take her there,  _just a little more, Soul,_  and who is he to deny her?

She comes undone around his fingers, hair feathered along polkadot pillowcases. He has to think of Black*Star pile driving him and Wes with that  _fucking sword,_ anything to keep his shit together while she wriggles and tightens and  _moans._  Her climax is like dinner, washing over his chest with renewed vigor, and he forces himself back onto his knees and licks his fingers clean instead of just collapsing on her.

Soul smacks his lips nosily and grins. She doesn't taste at all like faux vanilla.

"... Pig," she mutters, chest fluttering.

"Thank you for a good meal," he quips, unable to wipe the smile off his face. She rolls her eyes and kicks at him playfully, and Soul barely catches a knobby knee before it catches his hip. "Hey!"

"You don't think you're done, do you?"

He swallows and stares at her waist, her hipbones, the smooth, seductive expanse of her abs. "Hhmh."

Maka sits up and slides a hand down his chest, taking her sweet time in appreciating everything - throat, collarbone, naval, and takes an especially detailed amount of time petting down the trail of hair that leads beneath his waistband. He twitches and throbs, lip caught beneath his teeth as Maka follows it down, rubbing the head of him with a maddeningly delicate touch.

"I want you," she murmurs, not really stroking him so much as mapping out his anatomy, shaft and all. She trails along his length with a gentle sort of curiosity.

"Yeah," he pants. He twitches beneath her delicate touch and they both sigh. "I want…  _condom?_ "

"Pill."

Oh. That means…  _oh._

"I might not last," he admits, momentarily losing track of himself when she finally cups him in her palm. At least with a condom, he wouldn't have to worry about losing all of his cool upon immediate entry. There would be a protective barrier between his oversensitive erection and the molten, incredible heat that is Maka. Without it, though… well, he doesn't stand half a chance.

"That's okay," she mumbles. "It's your turn."

" _Haaah_ ," he groans uselessly, effectively bucking into her gentle grasp. "But…"

She kisses the corner of his mouth and slowly, surely, slips her thumbs beneath the waistband of his boxers to ease him out. He stills, enthralled, and lets her move and undress him, shuffling only to cup her face in his hands and kiss her mouth for real. Maka hums, content, and backs away only to wiggle out of her own underwear, and for the first time, they're naked together.

It's funny. They're not strangers to one another's bodies - no, he's explored her too many times to count on one hand, and she's found her way into his pants often enough as well. It's just never come down to both of them bare before and  _it's incredible._  He moves against her, skin on skin, and they sink back onto the mattress, Maka's back against the comforter as he slips a hand down to help guide himself into her center.

But she's so wet. Combine that with his experience with penetration ( _zero_ ) and he ends up sliding around while she bucks against him, desperate to be filled. Maka is halfway through scolding him and reaching down to give him a hand, literally, when he accidentally brushes her clit and she dissolves into little  _oohs_  and  _aahs,_  and because he's a man of opportunity, he busies himself with stimulating her instead of owning up to his level of suck.

The universe has to be working against him. There's a beautiful girl beneath him, soaked and ready, so ready for him - a girl that he loves and  _actually wants to do this with_  and he  _still_ can't figure out how to make this work.

" _Mnnnh,_  Souuul," Maka whimpers, low but just a bit flat in relation to the tune of the song he's picked out. Soul fumbles and slips, finally, between her legs and inches his way in. Partly, of course, because he's worried he might hurt her, but also partly because he's completely overwhelmed with the wet, hot softness that is  _Maka,_  and if he takes too much at once he's afraid it'll be over before it even begins.

Soul closes his eyes and moves slowly,  _slowly,_  arms shaking as she twitches and clenches around him. Her fingernails seek him out and sink into his back and he groans, heavy in the back of his throat. She has him. She has him and she can do what she pleases, just so long as this pleasure lasts.

He wants to drown in this. In  _her_ , in the way she makes him feel, heart slamming in his chest and blood racing. Like there are sparks igniting in his fingertips, jolts directly from the brightness of her eyes, the healthy flush of her cheeks. He realizes, belatedly, that somewhere along the way he must've opened his eyes without realizing it, because he's locked in a stare with her and it makes the first real thrust feel like magic.  _She's_  magic. The way she moves against him, every breath she takes, the way her shoulders and chest and entire being move with him as he plunges back within her - it's  _otherworldly,_  and coupled with the feeling of having life injected in him with every push and pull is almost too much for him.

His hands are magnetized to her. Soul can't  _not_  touch her. Her face, her breasts, her hips - everything is fair game, everything is flushed with heat and velvety soft beneath his hands, but his favorite place, by far, is the little bundle of nerves placed so dearly near where they meet. That place gets her going the most, makes her quiver and stutter, makes him feel less awkward about probably finishing eight miles ahead of her.

Which, if he's being honest, is going to be very soon. The mood music does nothing but rush him along. He's so strung up, so ready, so eager, and when he blurts it out that  _he's going to come very soon,_ she locks her (long, magnificent,  _beautiful_ ) legs around his hips and stares at him with a determined hardness that is, ultimately, is his undoing.

Minutes later, when he's slumped over her and his face is pressed firmly to her abdomen, she chuffs out a laugh and, while sorting her fingers through his hair, asks, "Soul, are you crying?"

The dampness of her abs didn't even register. He snuffles and scoffs. "No."

"Soul, I'm wet."

"We had  _sex,_ " he grunts.

"Not that!" she huffs, rolling her eyes, and he grins lazily against her belly button and blinks back the misty wetness that's begun to cling to his eyelashes.  _So uncool_.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Blenders at 7 AM on a Sunday should be illegal.

Soul groans and drags Maka's pillow over his head. Actually, anything at 7 AM should be illegal, but especially on a weekend - he's not a morning person, has never been a morning person, so of course his roommate slash girlfriend enjoys rising at the crack of dawn to make smoothies. Of course.

If he didn't love her so damn much, he might try and put his foot down, maybe give her an earful and pitch a fit. If it were Wes making the noise in the kitchen, he sure as hell would bitch him out. But it's Maka, who shared her very life force with him the night before, so all things considered, maybe he owes her.

It's not going to stop him from pouting, though. It's  _7 AM,_ as if the screaming birds outside her window aren't painful enough.

When the blending doesn't cease and Soul realizes that sleeping in just isn't going to happen, he grunts and drags himself out of bed. He has the decency to pull on a pair of boxers, lest any magical talking cats be lurking in the halls, and sulks into the kitchen, all but melting at the sight of Maka, wearing one of his shirts, a pair of mismatched fuzzy socks, and nothing else, humming perkily and pouring the contents of the blender into a pink-printed cup. She turns and beams at him and fuck it all, there goes his carefully thought out whining session. Maka's  _too darling_ with messy hair, wearing his things and sipping a protein drink.

Her sleepy eyes thaw his cold, angry heart. "Morning," she sing-songs, peeking at him from the rim of her cup before continuing to down it. She winces only slightly, her brows crinkling in dismay.

"... Taste bad?"

"I've had worse," she chimes, sliding her way over to him. Maka kisses his cheek gently, a hello, and he returns the favor back. "Sleep well?"

"Mmmh," he groans. "You?"

"I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow," Maka admits.

Soul can't keep himself from eyeing the cup in her hands. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Even when bleary and clouded with fatigue, her eyes are still sharp, and she cuts through his concern like a blade, sending a  _zing_  through his throat at the intensity of her gaze. "Yes," she insists, then breaks to sip again. Maka finishes the cup and sets it on the counter behind her, smiling boldly, and then licks her lips. "Just keeping my energy up to prepare for the day."

Soul certainly doesn't miss the way her line of vision sinks  _down_. Maka stares pointedly at his crotch and he shuffles uneasily, hoping dearly that his penis plays the quiet game. For someone who's not  _technically_  a succubus, Maka's thoughts sure drift to things less chaste more often than his do. Watching her eye him like a piece of meat makes his blood burn, and he takes to watching each slender, tiny finger bump and curl around the edge of the counter, short, chipped nails and all.

Those hands were in such  _interesting_ places only hours ago. Places he most likely shouldn't be thinking about with Blair probably hiding under the table. He thinks about it anyway. Commence blushing.

Maka grins, though she can't hide that her face is pink too, and turns to the sink to rinse out her cup, humming again and shifting her hips to her imaginary beat. She might be tone deaf, but she's charming, and he grins and slinks over her, linking his arms around her slim waist, pulling her back into his chest. His hands lock there, right by her hips, holding her securely as she squeaks a little and turns to catch his chin with her lips.

"Cuddle bug," she teases.

"You're warm. I'm practically naked. This is for survival."

"Drama queen."

"King," he insists, kissing along the underside of her jaw as she squeezes the excess water out of a sponge and gets to work. Hands move diligently over discarded silverware and cups, carefully around the blades of her blender, and Soul watches in a haze, momentarily distracted by her movements. His lips press against her neck, halted, as her thumb scrubs a piece of breaded chicken off of a plate.

It shouldn't be so mesmerizing. He probably has a thing for her hands.

Fuck, he definitely has a thing for her hands. Blunt fingernails and callouses should  _not_  be so sexy, but all he can think about is her hands, strong and sturdy, holding him, or sneaking past waistband checkpoints as she grips her prize and works him surely, steadily, into a blissful oblivion.

Maka's yelp draws him out of his daze. "Ew, don't drool on me!"

His tongue drags down her neck instead, and Maka freezes, chest pressed out. Her hips push against his hands and he drags her back. Her head falls back into his shoulder in a lull and leaves her neck - and throat, ooh - wide open and Soul jumps on the opportunity to dot her with a few more hickies for the road. She writhes and moans against him, effectively putty in his hands as he sucks and bites, careful, as always, with his teeth. When he drags his tongue over each bite, reverent and eager, the sponge hits the counter with a noisy splat as Maka cups her hand over her mouth to mute her little whines and sighs.

7 AM might be too early for blenders, but it's definitely not too early for a little fun. One of his palms slinks lower, spreading his fingers along the bare, supple flesh of her thigh. He soaks up her heat greedily, venturing up her  _(his)_ shirt, grinning into her neck upon realizing that she's got absolutely nothing on underneath and using just his fingertips to tease her. She's wet, alluringly so, and he feels around, pressing gently on her as she  _mewls_. Maka sighs, mumbling "Soul, please," through the cracks between her fingers.

"Impatient," he says, low, lips moving against her shoulder, her neck. He rubs circles around her clit, not quite there yet but just enough to reduce her to moans and sighs, hips mirroring the motions of his fingers. Her hips rolls in slow circles, steady little thrusts against his fingers as she tries, fruitlessly, to get him to slide in knuckles deep. She's convincing, too; the way she keeps grinding back against him only serves to frustrate him and get him going, and if the throbbing, vibrant erection tenting in his boxers is any evidence, Maka's doing a damn good job at getting what she wants.

But it's too much fun to tease her. And she's hot when she's squirming in his arms, with one of his hands still pressed to her hip to hold her against him as she bucks. Her motions are fluid, lazy with sleep but still good, still Maka - stubborn, resilient Maka, as she presses a hot cheek against the side of his face and pleads with him, quietly, for a little more. _Just a little more_  is all she needs to get there.

He really wants to help her there.

Soul relents, finally, sinking deep within her easily, crooking his fingers and earning himself a low, crooning moan. He works her firmly, hand curling possessively over her hip as his thumb presses against her and Maka tightens all around him. She flutters and then tenses,  _tight,_  her voice cracking and breaking in such darling, blood rushing ways before slumping against him.

His fingers feel hot. He could live there, honestly, and he might have to, judging by the way her thighs have clamped around his hand. Her skin is velvety soft and burning, and it makes him suck in a painful breath and count to three in his head to soothe the aching, straining boner that's pressed quite firmly against the curve of her ass.

Maka breathes low. She sounds pretty when she comes, like a bird song, and he wishes his hand had been cupped over her chest instead, to feel the slamming of her heart.

"Soul?"

"Mm?"

"You ate lunch when we went out with Papa. You don't eat," she squints at the curtains thoughtfully. "Where did it go?"

"... Are you asking me if I shit? Right after you drank a protein shake? Really, Maka?  _Gross._ "

* * *

"Nyaaaah, just a little lower!"

"Work for it, cat. Nothing good ever comes easy."

Sex toy with feelings or sentient cat toy? Which is the true Soul?

Even he isn't sure. But if it keeps Blair from taunting him or kicking her kitty litter all over his laundry, then he'll dangle his tail over her head any day. She hunts, ears perked as she paces back and forth, bright yellow eyes trained on the edge of his tail as he lays on the bed, chin in his hand as he sifts through Maka's old high school yearbook and shifts his tail back and forth. Maka would probably be pleased to find him playing nice with her pet, but it's less of a peace pact than a mutual agreement that if he entertains her, she won't wreck havoc upon his feeble soul.

Blair misjudges the trajectory and pounces into Maka's dresser. Soul chuckles and flips the page. Huh, Maka went to school with someone named Ox. What an unfortunate name. His glasses leave a lot to be desired, too.

"Do you hear knocking?"

He lifts his head, lazily, and stares at her. "Don't try to distract me. Eyes on the prize."

"No!" she insists, balking. "I hear knocking! I think someone's at the door, nyah."

Sure enough, there's knocking - more like someone's fist slamming against the door. Both his and her ears perk. She smiles smugly and sits to lick a paw. "Told you so."

" _Nyah_ ," Soul scowls, hissing at her as he stalks up to his feet and stomps down the hall. It better not be anyone trying to sell him anything, because he's not buying. It can't be Maka; she has class until 2:30 and it's only noon. For fuck's sake, it's almost naptime. What sort of evil person interrupts naptime?

He's halfway across the entryway when Black*Star gets tired of waiting and kicks in the door. It swings off the hinges, crashing nosily into the wall and - Soul winces - definitely leaving a hole where the doorknob hit. Maka won't be happy to find her brother went on a demolition derby through her apartment just to rip her new boyfriend to shreds, piece by lanky piece. Soul swallows thickly and takes a precautionary step back, making note of all the potential exits should he need to make a quick escape.

He's quietly noting the living room window and the tiny window in the kitchen when Black*Star slams his fist into the door to make a startling bang. Soul just about jumps out the kitchen window, he's backtracked so much. "Bed crawler!" he booms, unclenching his fist to point at his prey. Even Blair's hair is standing on end. "I thought I told you to keep my sister out of the bone zone?!"

Guilty as charged. Soul practically lunges back and grabs a chair, just in chase he should need to defend himself. "Maka-"

"Can make her own choices, sure, I get it; the overprotective brother game is old and offensive, whatever," he waves his hand flippantly. "Maka already gave me the whole spiel."

"Then why are you here?! Kicking me around for fun won't get on her good side!"

Drunk on power, Black*Star makes his way over to him. He grinds a fist into his open palm and Soul tightens his grip on the chair. If he's going to go down, it's going to be swinging. No more backing down without a fight. No more crying like a baby when life presents him with challenges. He finally has something worth fighting for and he'll try his damndest to make it out of this without a black eye and three broken ribs.

 _Just_ a black eye will suffice. Soul sturdies himself, shoulders squared, and prepares for the worst.

"I know what you are," Black*Star growls, clearly eyeing the obvious signs - the horns, his tail, the sharp teeth and pointed ears - with a predatory sort of intensity. Maka's brother is short but not  _tiny_. His muscles bulge, and despite the faint aroma of Cool Ranch Doritos wafting off of him, there's no doubt in Soul's mind that, should he chose to, he could snap him in half and bench press him for fun. He's not unlike Maka in that respect. They have matching gym memberships. "And Maka-"

"- Is half demon," Soul grunts. "I know. So it's okay. I'm not sucking the life out of a human. Relax."

"No," Black*Star shakes his head. "It's not alright.  _Still_  a foul."

"I'm not going to make her choke!"

He pinks but isn't deterred. His stance is steeled, horrifyingly, and Soul raises the chair in defence. "NO,  _numbnuts!_  She's -  _god,_  she hasn't told you anything, has she? Just enough to get you to agree to stick it in, huh? Can't imagine it took much. Pigtails might have fat ankles and a flat chest but she's probably the best damn thing to happen in your sorry life."

"Get to the point?"

"Your demon dick is going to kill her. Your demon dick kills humans."

Soul brandishes the chair like a weapon and waves it at him. Black*Star folds his beefy arms over his chest and stares him down, not at all intimidated by a wooden chair with cat scratches up and down its legs.

Maybe he should have grabbed a knife or something. Or even a fork. Hell - something with better stabbing potential, because simple battery isn't going to get this monster to back down. Black*Star is probably the only 100% pure human he's spoken to in the past three weeks, and he's by far the most intimidating, beating out even  _Spirit Albarn, incubus Dumbledore_.

"If that were even remotely true, you wouldn't have tried to fuck my brother!"

" _Because I have a penis,_ you dumbass!" he screams, pulling his hair and turning at once to kick the counter. The glasses stacked upside down to dry clatter. "You ever wonder where her mom is? You know,  _the woman who gave birth to her,_  not Mira?"

Soul drops the chair. "Wait."

 _Gone_. He hadn't pressed too hard, thinking of nothing but Maka's feelings over the topic. Whenever he brought up her mother's whereabouts, Maka always danced around the subject. It explains why Maka never has long talks over the phone with her mom, explains why her gross dad had looked so gobsmacked and devastated when she decided to drop the mom bomb…

No way.

Sobered by the dawn of realization upon Soul's face, perhaps, Black*Star loosens his stance and scuffs his foot against the kitchen tile. For the first time, he's not Maka's muscle-brained overprotective brother - he's just Black*Star, concerned sibling, and he regards Soul with something akin to pity.

"Her mom passed after giving birth to her."

* * *

She's been lying to him.

No, not lying. She's never outright said that her mother was alive and well, but Maka's definitely been lying by omission. Everything else up until this point has been child's play; her not letting him know that she'd known he was an incubus upon meeting him was irritating at best, but not troublesome in the end. Soul's so thoroughly desensitized to being the butt end of the joke that he's not even playing the game anymore. And not telling him about her dad, while potentially dangerous to the current arrangement of his balls, wasn't really hurting him. If anything, it was holding him back from potentially hurting  _her_.

Sure, he gets wanting to hide her parentage, if only because Spirit doesn't really strike him as  _Dad of the Year_. But the part about her mother definitely should've come out when she came clean about her dad. It's an important bit to leave out - her mother died after giving birth to her. Her mother, a perfect human, passed after giving birth to her incubus boyfriend's spawn. The whole thing is so reminiscent of Soul's own relationship that it kind of makes him sick, in a slick palms and shaky stomach sort of way, because what if history repeats itself?

Maka has the body of a human and the spirit of a demon. The details are still unclear. He wishes that he'd thought to push deeper for answers, to ask Marie a few more questions before allowing himself to be escorted far away from his boss and into safety. Would the same happen to Maka? Was demon pregnancy too hard on the body or the soul? Which had been Maka's mom's undoing?

Which would be Maka's?

He swallows thickly and stares at her ceiling. Does Maka even want kids? Does she want them with him? Has she even thought that far into the future?

The thought of Maka cradling a tiny, blonde baby used to make his spirit sing. Now, though… he grips his iPod tighter and presses a hand to his face. Everything is fucked, and for once, just once, he'd sort of thought that things were going to be okay for him. That maybe he'd have a cheesy happily-ever-after - or at least a few years, with a real house, Maka's degree and maybe some dogs.

He would be lying, though, to say some selfish, childish part of him didn't want kids with her someday. Maka's reckless, stubborn and refuses to eat her broccoli some days, but she's also  _loving_  and  _soft_  and she would be the best mother, and maybe if she mothered his kids they wouldn't be as pathetic as he is. She's goodness and life, bright like nothing else, sharp as a whip and so strong and - he crushes his palm over his eyes and groans. Everything's  _fucked_.

The door opening and closing and the footsteps down the hall don't even register. For a while, Soul lays there and contemplates his choice of action.

"Hey," she pokes her head in, brows taut. "What happened to the wall?"

"Black*Star."

Maka narrows her eyes. "He came over?"

"Mmmh," he grunts, rolling his head to get a good look at her. She doesn't look ill. Her pigtails are high and perky, blonde hair the same dusty, musty shade of gold, eyes boiling emerald. She's just the same as she was when she left for class this morning.

Soul pulls himself up to sit and sets her with a stern stare, tugging out his headphones and setting them on his lap. Her brows raise. "Maka."

"Soul?"

"Where's your mom?"

If she lies, he doesn't know what he'll do.

Even if she does tell the truth, though, he still doesn't quite know what he's doing to do about it. The obvious answer - and perhaps the right answer, morally - would be to break up with her, set her free and let her have a future that won't potentially involve giving up her life to carry his demonic spawn. He could go back to helping Kim out at the retirement home, barely surviving off of the hugs of the elderly and ignoring Wes' offerings of threesomes. It was never an ideal life, but he would stomach it, again and again if it was what Maka wanted. If it was what it took to keep her safe.

He doesn't  _want_  to break up with her. But then again, is it really a matter of want, or is it of necessity? Soul's a lot of things, but he likes to think that he's not a scrub - a loser, a dick, a failure, sure, whatever, but he's not the type of guy to drag her down. Especially not to her death. Hell no.

She chooses her words carefully. "She's… not around."

"She's  _not,_ " he echoes.

"... No."

"And why would that be?"

Her expression is swimming with something, and he has a sneaking suspicion it's nothing of the flirty and fun variety. Dead mothers, Soul supposes, really aren't the ideal conversation to share with one's significant other after a long day of college and part-time work.

Finally, she sets her mouth into an even line and asks, "Black*Star told, didn't he?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She puffs out a breath and leans in the doorway, running her fingers through a pigtail. "Because you'd overreact? Like you're doing right now?"

"Maka, I could  _KILL_  you-"

"If I was a regular human! We don't know if pregnancy would kill me or not, and I'm on birth control anyways, so-"

He stands, silencing her. The only noise in the room comes from his discarded headphones, soft, muted jazz humming and a quick, sharp gasp from Maka as she tightens her grasp on the doorframe. Her eyes might be wide and her breath caught, but he can already tell that what she feels isn't fear. Maka's not afraid of it, of him. If anything, she's just surprised.

Soul crosses the room and stands before her. He picks at a pigtail, plucks it out of her grasp and lets it feather over her shoulder. She's tied her hair tight again and god, it must give her a headache to keep that elastic coiled so many times around her hair. Green eyes look up at him through blonde lashes and she's never looked more lovely, more enamored, and not for the first time is he reminded how beautiful she is and how much he loves her, how lucky he is to have someone like her.

"Hey," he mutters, tone flat. "This isn't like everything else you conveniently forgot to tell me. This could actually put your life in danger."

She doesn't even miss a beat. "I want to be with you, Soul."

Soul tells himself not to blush. Fails incredibly. Tries to keep his expression even and stern as he asks, "Do you want to have kids someday?" and fails, again, at the pretty pink blush that blooms, like a single drop of blood into a bowl of milk, across her face. "Right."

"With you," she insists, staring at him imploringly. The heat on her face is still blazing, incandescent, but she doesn't look away even for a second, eyes just as vivid as the heat flaming across the ridge of her nose, the apples of her cheeks. "Either it's with you or not at all."

What part about  _he can't do this if it could hurt her_  doesn't she get? It's not a game, not a test to see how tenacious she is. Loving her and letting her go, while painful, is something he can do; loving her and losing her is something he can't. The curling and fluttering in his stomach feels misplaced and gross, and he's a sap for her, he really is - but he can't do this,  _cannot,_  even when she blinks those doe eyes at him and presses her hands over his heart. Puppy eyes won't work on him, and he steels his resolve, a quiet mantra of don't  _give in, don't give_  in rumbling in the back of his mind.

His hand presses over hers. His own heartbeat is a tick faster than hers, an accelerated, unnatural tempo. "I won't hurt you. I can't."

"I'm not human," she whispers, pressing harder against his chest, like maybe she can infuse herself with him, as if it'll prove her right. They've been one before, only once, and the way she looks at him makes it impossible for him to regret it. "I'm not."

"You're… close, though-"

She clutches his shirt and drags him closer. He stumbles, and not so much sinks into her arms as  _falls_  there, but it's nice and cozy and her arms are home, so he links his own around her and lets himself be lulled into a calm by the steady rhythm of her breath.

"Listen to me," she says, muffled into his shoulder. It's a strain, but there's nothing else making sound in the room but his headphones, buried in the caverns of her comforter, so he focuses. "You will not hurt me. We don't have to talk about kids yet if it makes you uncomfortable, okay? Besides, we don't even know if it's dangerous for me. I'm not as human as Mama was, and you're not exactly an incubus allstar yourself, right? You're not gross like Papa."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," he says gruffly, absolutely  _not_ pouting.

She manages to hold back her laughter. Maka moves back, just enough to make room for her hands to cup his face and she holds him still, presses her forehead against his and runs her thumbs along the curve of his jaw.

Noses bump, Maka giggles and  _fuck,_  it's so hard not to give in and melt into her touch. He wants to. God, does he want to.

"I'm going to be okay. I feel great, you know," she says soothingly. He all but purrs. "You're so worried about the side effects that you haven't even considered the benefits. The sex is  _really good,_  Soul." He squawks and she laughs again. "And I'm  _not human_. I'm  _half demon_. Do you really think Marie would let me be with you if it were that dangerous? Or _Papa?_ "

Something inside of him screams in horror. "Uh, your dad wasn't really on board, in case you forgot. He tried to shank me with a butter knife at lunch."

"He would have made a bigger stink.  _Trust me._  You wouldn't still be standing here if I was in serious danger. He's just trying to patrol who I date. He's  _always_  done this."

All of her cards are on the table. Maka sucks in a breath and stares at him imploringly.  _Trust me_ , her gaze seems to say, and the tightness in his chest loosens.

"... We talk to Stein about this," he mutters. "And you stay on birth control until he deems it safe."

"You want kids  _now_?" she squeaks, and hell, now they both resemble fire hydrants.

"No! N-Not now, but… in the future, sure."  _Definitely_. "And I'd rather know it's safe just in general, in case something does go wrong and you end up getting pregnant, you know? Better safe than sorry. Contraceptives aren't always 100% dependable."

Daydreams of little blonde toddlers aren't so farfetched after all. He feels considerably lighter, like maybe his head is full of helium, as Maka tugs him against her mouth. They kiss slowly, not in any real rush or frenzy, just a comfortable lull of affection and adoration. More than anything else, he wants to convey how much he cares about her, how he wants her to feel safe and happy when she's with him and not like she's constantly dodging bullets to remain healthy. Quite frankly, he doesn't give a fuck about feeding - not if it endangers her, anyway. Never.

Maka tastes like granola bars and apples. He licks his lips.

"Are we okay, then?" she asks, fluttering her nose against his.

More than okay. In fact, Soul is  _great_ up until the moment Blair decides that  _now_  is the best time to strike and sinks her claws into his gently whumping tail. He howls, not at all the seductive, loving incubus he pretends to be, and leaps into Maka's arms, ass first, arms linked around her neck as he tries his damndest to shake the hunter from her prey.

The cat dangles from his tail, grinning and mewing victoriously.

* * *

"You've grown, you know."

He opens one eye to squint at her.

She giggles, laying across from him, and continues to work her hands through his hair. Each time she passes through from root-to-tip he sighs nosily and she beams, beckoning him over. Before long, his face is pressed into her boobs and her hands are in his hair and finally, everything is good in the world. It's so comfortable against her that he thinks he could probably nod off like this, face nestled snugly against her glorious bralessness and listening to the easy pitch of her voice.

Cuddling after a scuffle is even better than make up sex. Soul feels deliciously boneless, slumped against her as she breathes slowly, evenly. Her heart, though, is an even better metronome than anything else, and with his face pressed so close against her chest, he can easily find peace in the stable rhythm.

"Your horns, I mean," she mumbles serenely. Maka sounds so at peace as she lazily combs her fingers through his hair. "They're not just little points anymore. There's some shape to them."

"'ts cause we fucked," he slurs, practically drooling all over her ( _HIS!_ ) nightshirt. He can't be blamed, though, because there are tits in his face and  _everything is coming up Soul_. "Getting nutrition and…  _yeah_."

Maka clicks her tongue. "I wish you wouldn't call it that."

"Banged. Consummated our love. Bumped uglies."

"Can't you just say we had sex?"

"A  _lot_ of sex," he mutters. "So clinical."

His girlfriend is such a nerd. Stubborn, too - when he gives her too much attitude, her gentle petting becomes hair pulling, and while that's sexy when they're getting down and dirty, in ordinary terms it hurts like hell. He groans and squirms against her, muttering his apologies and pretty pleases and  _come on, Maka, he grew that himself,_ and finally she relents. Like the gracious, wonderful woman she is, Maka massages his scalp, rubbing at the soreness and ache with firm fingers that have him humming happily into the softness of her breast.

Right up until she bumps the edge of his horn. Then things things take a turn for the weird.

Because somehow horn rubbing equates to pleasure, and when she makes the same mistake again, he  _moans_  and then the gloves are off. He's created a monster.

"Oh!" she gasps, looking down at him and positively beaming. There are little stars in her eyes, beams of excitement and mischief that spell out the burial of his pride.

"Oh, no," he groans.

Maka ignores him. "I didn't know that was a thing. Why didn't you tell me rubbing your horns was a thing?"

 _Well shit, Maka,_ he thinks as he attempts to further hide himself against her and escape bonerville,  _maybe because you're the only girl I've ever been with._

Saying that out loud would be certain death, so instead he takes to grumbling incoherently into her shirt and hoping to god she doesn't continue fondling him. Or maybe he hopes she does. At this point, he really can't tell anymore. On the one hand, her fingers felt really nice and he hadn't even been aware he was sensitive there. On the other hand, how _embarrassing_  to get an unfortunate boner from nothing more than Maka nudging his otherwise useless horns during a scalp massage. She had been so innocent in her intentions and then he came along to muck it up with his general grossness and accidental perversion, as per usual.

Well, this explains why horn licking is a thing. It also explains about a dozen of the situations Wes has raved about. Part of him had hoped it was just superstition or Wes being himself, but nope. Maka brushes her fingers along the base, gentle and delicate, with the ghost of a touch, and he all but shudders against her, slack jawed and  _way_ too oversensitive for his own good.

Wes is right; he  _is_  a sex toy with feelings. Gross, sappy feelings and an overwhelming urge to melt into her capable hands and beg her to do with him as she pleases, just don't tease him. His hands find purchase around her hips and he holds her securely, mouth a slack of heat against the worn fabric of her shirt. Soul finds himself kissing and licking lazily, tongue stroking her cotton-covered nipple with every pass of her fingers.

When Maka gets her thumb involved and rubs steady, heady circles along the base of his horn, he's reduced to a groaning, shaking pile. Goddammit, he knows that move - that's the same rubbing pattern he uses when he's got his hands up her skirt and his mouth on her neck. She's so damn observant and  _smug_  as she cooes his name and repeats the process, rubbing firm little o's and quite enjoying the whimpering mess of a boy she has locked against her, rubbing his shameful erection against the crease of her thighs, desperate for some sort of relief.

It's hard for him to think straight. Between being  _hard_ enough to probably chisel his way through stone and the deliberate, mischievous way Maka seems to be intent on getting him off through horn stimulation alone, Soul thinks he might lose his mind. He knows what he wants to do, but maybe stuffing his hand down his boxers and rubbing one out in front of her isn't the best way to really woo a lady.

She makes it difficult, though. The slow, languid rolls of her hips against his pathetic grinds make him wonder if there's that delicious, damp heat radiating between her legs again, if she's just as bothered as he is, but he doesn't have time to check for himself. Maka leans over and licks the tip of a horn, of all things, and it goes straight to his dick. He moans breathily and mouths her breasts through her shirt, hands slipping from her hips to cup her bottom and pull her against him.

"Guuuuh," he groans, grasping, squeezing tighter. "Maka, come on…"

She flicks her tongue along the tip of the other horn. "You're so sensitive…"

If only she knew. Every part of him is screaming in desperation, no longer a want but a need, fuckmefuckmefuckme in the worst sense of the word because all she's done is rub his horns a little and  _why did no one tell him that they would be so sensitive to the touch_. Does the universe like playing sick jokes on him? Does it get off on making him squirm? Does Maka?

Her thighs are suspiciously hot. Check yes on the Maka thing - she's definitely getting off on making him squirm and it's just about the greatest thing ever. And the worst. But mostly the best, because her legs are bare and he's only got on a pair of shark-printed boxers and might as well wrap his tail around one of her legs while he's at it, huh, can't hurt; the little ripple of a moan that he feels resonate in her chest is so worth it. Maka fights back, slinging one leg over his hip and lets him lead her into a slow, meticulous grind, one that has him seeing stars and her blowing a hot breath onto his oversensitive antler.

She rocks, rolls her hips, moves with him as she suckles delicately, careful with her teeth but generous with her tongue, hands pushing through his hair in tandem.

Never mind half - Maka's all demon in the way she grins before she works him, fingers and tongue and all, and fuckitall if he's not into it. If he's a fly in her web, then he's about to die a very happy bloodsucker.

He doesn't hate it at all.


End file.
